I love the Benedictine belief that the deepest part of any human being is the image of God in the soul. Even more, I love the way they respect it and honor it. The stranger who comes to me awakens the Son in me, they like to say; the Son in me greets the Son in you. The Christ in us awakens each other. It is a "Son rise." In this poem, I am playing with the word "Sun rise" to mean the Son that rises in us....rises above the melancholy, the pall that sometimes shrouds us.
Winter Questions
Sleet falling, crystals capturing the night,
Clothing trees with ice like iron,
bent backwards,
barely breathing,
life out of shape,
Like the old man crooked with his cane,
before he ever needed one, from the years
of burden carried, the future that never came.
So the night surrounds the sleeper,
Falling with dreams of weight,
The ice that presses the mind and heart,
Seizing the
spirit,
Filling the lungs,
From breathing in the night,
with sleet that freezes the will to live,
like blankets with cold comfort covering
the cry--
Awake!
Let night fly!
-- still comes from the soul.
And resounds in the Sun that rises for the new day.
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