I walk among the Indian Blankets blooming bright on a spring day.
The day’s light it bears in an image from which I do not have to look away.
Fringed in yellow it turns to its father, and the holy face
Full of honor and obedience watches the sun’s trace.
The flower passes away in a summer and I know I have lost a brother
Yet in the earths loamy ground it waits to be exhumed by its father.
For each spring it is called to recount to me the deep truth of our race:
We are the other’s image to our Eternal Light which we cannot face.
We turn and see in each other His unbearable, beautiful Face.
No comments:
Post a Comment