Harrowing

Darkness, transitioning from the soft incandescence

of behind the curtain, covers the face of the child, folding

him within the aether that separates blackest night from dawn.

The soft shuffle of life, behind and before the child,

dares not cut the silence, but hovers, unnoticed,  

clinging to the veil that droopingly spans the door.

The cool, as at even, touches furtively, the still warmth of the

Room, knowing it is not the absence of heat, nor its inverse the absence of

itself - both indeed are alike and in the balance – redemption.

Sweetest nectar, awaits the bitter palette, hopeful as the water yearning

for the unquenched Dives, or the rain for the parched earth before the

coming of the storm – yet, “Hold,” the moment says, “j’ai soif.”

In the room behind the curtain, a child, being and becoming, holds his breath,

covers his eyes, counts the hours, and awaits a death that opens itself to life,

for in the space between, the place of the shadows is claimed by Light.