votive

tapering flame

my vow

ignited

now flickers dimly true

thin frankincense

wisp,

though --night being what it is--

never truly dim but

attenuated, the fine rarity

we tend.

(selah)

isn't that the watchman's

privilege? our bold

sanctuary, the silent

delight, intimate, this

love-work?

through night,

being what it isn't, who could

hardly see but by this

gloaming:

the bluer shadow

aglow a gray wave,

dream-murmur

from a fevered sea,

where the mad tempest traces

darker lines against darkness

(a ghost!

walking

more flesh than fog...)

strain and hard tossed

rope and oar and

sheets of rain and wave awash

blotting shore and sky and all

blind but for that

glimmer,

those calloused fishermen

bundled in their boat:

Fear not.

Hushed...

(i have seen

what begins as a flash

must yet be trimmed

still;

if not hope,

then its ghost

walking upon the sea....