Capricorn Moon
Four o'clock in the morning, Capricorn Moon. Somewhere the Eucharist is elevated, sending tremors through the world. Somewhere in the pine woods near-by, a whip-poor-will. Somewhere, she is sleeping. Everywhere around me, the Holiness of everything is waking that slept for so long. Was it the world who slept, or was it me? The fire of Celtic blood is in my veins, and late-spring breezes in the pines. Old oaks spread their branches toward the sky, heaven reaching toward heaven. The sacred is the here and now. Every thing is incensed altars. Future plunges to the Past. Hold on. Hold on.Hold on.
12 May, 2001
Crawford