Offices. Nov. 99
And now the leaves that linger are released
They fathom down the cold November air
And preach again the offices of gold.
The pheasant's wings though temporal unfold
As if an angel balanced on a prayer
And made a candelabrum of the trees.
A magpie wears its vestments like a priest
Where sunshine is a canticle that glares
And light is an indulgence bought and sold.
The incense is infused with musk and mould
Where celebrants in secrecy prepare
To sacrify the summer and its feast.
The vespers come with starlight in the
Where evensong is resonant and rare
And says much more than language can withhold.
The moonlight's elevation haunts the soul
Where darkness is the sacrament declared
And compline waits to culminate in peace.