One goes down in orange flames,
the other arises in wet white and
the melancholy creeps into your present tense:
The autumn your bones hurt to the marrow,
the winter you bloomed in the brief daylight,
with mouthfuls of bitters, eyefuls of beautiful children.
The days you lost, the reinvented joy,
the unopened books,
a bird singing in the night.
Out of purple darkness the world
turned to face the sun again, and
everything and nothing had changed.
The miles and years like graffiti on your skin,
the generosity of prayer days,
bent on your knees before a creation sky.
And this is what God does:
sends you on a journey in a homeward direction,
makes the dark a light in you,
sings you resurrection songs
until the urgency has passed.