So the pious wither and fade
and the northern swan is pulled from the sky,
its bones changed to wood
where truth is nailed in defiant light.
The fourfold shadow gathers bridges of twilight
where the secrecy of being slides
down the gloaming on golden threads
through batholith seams
teeming with a world of eyes
whose lids nurture unborn stars.
The tunnels burrow inward to sanctity,
circling round the open air
toward staggering height and flashing thresholds;
when the imagination is anointed
the breadth of a galaxy
will rage in the glassy heart
of a single snowflake falling
through the memory of a winter’s night.
(c) Seth Grube