Night Is Kneeling
Night is kneeling, numinous in prayer,
with its eyes upraised in ancient hymn.
Warm is the wind as it wraps softly
like a prayer shawl for the penitent soul
around the body's frame, fringed with shades.
Stars are singing songs beyond hearing,
a kingly chorus, a choir of light.
Wearily waits a world asleep.
Hope is growing, healing with prayer:
night, faith-healer, fearlessly asks,
laying its hands on hearts in despair,
casting out care.
A fire has no fear. Its fury can rage
by harmony unhindered, its heat unabated;
it flies across fields, its freedom a danger.
With water it wars, but wave, too, is fearless;
it flows in the furrow and finds its own way.
It wends as it will, but waits as it must.
The earth does not yield in its honor unmoving.
It quietly conquers by keeping its place;
in starkness it stands, to stop all intrusion.
The air is most active, in all it will move.
The wind does not weary; it wears all in time,
harries unhindered and hunts as it will.