By William Ingogly
What do you know of light,
little heart’s voice,
little calling in the darkness?
The silence fears the word
you carry toward the new day.
All night you measure
the silent turning of the earth
beneath the moon’s brilliant
face shining on your black skull.
You sing brightness in the hour of dust.
Of course the new day remembers,
as light wells up from the dark grass
and the wind spreads over the burning trees.
From the high branches the birds proclaim:
“Christ is risen today, risen indeed.”
Beneath every stone, heart’s voice,
within the split wood you are sleeping.
When the darkness closes day’s end
again, shut fast like a tomb’s door,
you will bear again your single word
in faith through sleep’s dark waters.
William Ingogly is a poet and essayist who lives in Greenville, South Carolina. He has previously been published in Eyecatcher and The Word Magazine. His work explores the relationship between liminality and the numinous.