style="font-size:15px;"> between Christmas and Epiphany,
when the old freezing cold bore down,
like a bear on linden stilts:
“Who’s been cooking up my meat,
who’s been winding my shaggy coat?”
The tiny stars were blinking,
unknown and unknowable all.
And I dreamed that I was loved,
that nothing was ever denied me,
that a golden comb smoothed my braids,
a silver sled bore me along,
and words from a secret book were read to me,
words that I soon forgot.
5
From the deepest well,
or the furthest star
my grandmother looks out from each thing:
Nothing, she says, nothing can we know.
We cannot say what we have seen.
We walk along, like two beggars.
Give us nothing, yet we are grateful.
Of the others, we know nothing.
6
If the world had master craftsmen,
they would build a chapel
over our miraculous well,
to replace what was once blown up . . .
If I had the slightest zeal,
I would sew you a cover of cloth,
showing Nicholas the Wonder Worker,
or anyone else you wanted . . .
If an angel would whisper in my ear
a word as beloved as evening stars,
held dear in the mind as it listens,
I would repeat it over and over
and know all that you seek—
Nothing is needed by the dead,
Not home, not clothing, not ears to listen.
They need nothing from us.
Nothing—except the wide, wide world.
7
All along the road, along the dusty road
I was walking and mourning, filled with grief—
you must know what it is to grieve. Do you?
When a stone shall swim as a fish,
then, I say, shall my soul
feel life and forgiveness.
The stone sails along like a boat,
blown by favorable winds,
righting its small gold sail,
its bright nettle-like wings,
its gold oars just barely glimpsed
in the distant, noisy sea.
And what was, will not be.
What will be is best of all.
8
Invisible flame, burn!
I need nothing else, only you.
All else will be taken from me.
If not taken, then I’ll be asked to yield it.
If not asked, then I will cast it off,
out of boredom, and out of fear.
Like the star that gazes on the cradle,
or the watchhouse deep in the thicket,
swinging on the blackened chains,
burn, invisible flame, burn!
You are an icon lamp, oiled by tears,
by the doubt in a cruel heart,
by the smile of one who turns to leave.
So, burn, and pass along the news
to the Savior, to God in His Heavens,
that on earth He is remembered,
that He is still not forgotten.
9
(A Prayer)
Bring warmth, O Lord, to your Beloved flock—
the orphans, the infirm, the dispossessed.
For the one who can do nothing,
do all that he is bidden to do.
And for the dead, O Lord, the dead—
let their sins catch fire like straw,
let the sins burn and leave no trace
in the grave or the lofty heavens.
You are the Lord of all miracles and promises.
Let all that is not miracle burn away.
1982
POEMS ADDED TO “OLD SONGS”
DEDICATION
Remember, I say, remember,
remember, I say as I cry:
all will forsake, all will change,
and hope itself dies away.
The ocean does not fall into the river;
the river does not return to its source;
time
