07 Apr Forget-me-nots Sing This Song

A bouquet of Marys gathered ’round
The eternal tree,
Dripping ripe with swelling fruit-breath
Sheds a special gift that ought to fall without ever touching ground.
The Poet said spring was
The cruelest season,
For it is the forgetting of new-death,
As if the ugly hiss of wintry snow was never found,
Or the fall of leaves and fallen trees never made a sound.

The world of signs sprouts a holy
Wisdom-in-figure,
Passed from the other side of the invisible glory-world veil,
That man, he slays the Λόγος as he slew the λόγοι

First in his mind, second
The mysterious visitor
Under the guise of a stranger inscrutable, lowly,
A sudden seaward gust which catches every sail.

Mighty comes the Maker of
Tongues and credible Creeds
Not as any angel or illusive trick of the light,
That in the fold of mortally-pleated deeds,
That in the splintering sky of never-night
That a God greater than imaginations bleeds,
Disappears from sight
And reigns from glorified height
By words, by image, by cross-beam seed

Etched in the skin of symbols and reduced
To nothing less but Magnificence
O happy fault induced.