-es all color dim; in a wonderless sky smeared with groundlight we strain for space, craft
-ing dread into dream: mazed, lost, shot, alone. fifty years, so unfinished in peace
-ing phase by phase, layer by layer; your maker heart left to this scream
-ing of wind through the seasons
you make the god you want, not of gold
or even paper, but green-warm earth—hail
it as something gifted from the blue.
what is your church? but this slate blue
mountain, bare slopes, trees brushed soft gold,
solitude, song; or fall’s sharp wind, rain, hail,
snow silence. eyes closed, face lifted to hail
pilgrim thought. no room for guilt in sky’s blue:
if the soul lights, burns ember-gold—
I am. (gold-hail prayer in this blue)
Thanks to Christine for the three tritina words.