for Vespers: all these things they say foretold

the air gathers up this Lenten season

the tiny voices of children : a choir 

of Sundays unburdened by bells

scattered across a cloistered sky:

yet no one nor anything ever lost

notes dissemble against the currents of light

each transparent unravelling line 

knotted only by blood  

struggle to mark time woven to taunt lamentation. 

seasons of flayed tulips lean together 

in the simplicity of acceptance. 

finally they too open the door 

as if onto something else 

but is always here. 

what remains

this prayer 

disappears into silence

libere me domine