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The evening breeze through the window,
As I look back into the low Tree dancing to the silent play Of clouds and moon, and hue of gray; Pale blackness on the deep'ning sky, Its shades of dark made beautiful By lack of light, absence of ray, When silence ends a Maker’s day-- Empty'ng beauty. Bending echo Of weathered creation outgrows The night. Then, a low distant cry Striates hist'ry. Lost in time full Laces of blue displayed his rule, While the trees sing its Lullaby. -- Yannick Imbert teaches theology in southern France at Faculté Jean Calvin. He is a Tolkien scholar and publishes books and articles at the intersection of theology and culture. He has also published online in Transpositions, Ekstasis, Macrina, Inklings Studies and other theological journals. He writes in French at delagracedansencrier.com.
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What a waste to be hiding,
didn’t we think? So I gave you my sight line and the quiver behind, shedding several old skins in the course of my tears. You rowed down that river, the heart of my darkness, and tethered your soul to the floodplain spine. You were a part of my yesterday, my tomorrow too, and this moment, I’m hoping, in the wounds broken open, the courage you planted finally took. And I’ll grow into love because of you. -- For K.P. and R.H. Aisling Cruz is a Midwest-based poet and artist. Her work has appeared in Gotham Literature, Agape Review and Oyster River Pages, among others. |