Mid violet golden lights of early morn
It's near to sing this still small sequence. Here
It is! because the veil has richly torn.
This is the closest It has come all year
along the stages of this still small proof.
Each threshold of inductive proof is clear
after the leap at first, up through the roof;
& as It wakes us, shows us how to steer,
we sense without a need for further leaps.
Desires that are not needful turn to ash.
The stakes are high, the game is played for keeps,
& what I used to be was just a gash!
an open wound! a birthday manimal!
a dying fallen bundle of desires
It gives the coup de grace. My animal
is quite reluctant to give back Its fires
as lights & wide open expanse of height
of presence near, & joy among the briars!
But It decided it would be so, sight
unseen: the Inmost Sunlight which inspires.
