Alice O. Howell
He who feels
the golden tides of the god
wash through his soul
who in his friable self
crumbles, surrenders, and dissolves
all element to light –
who has flown the inner winds of the moon
gathered the stars in his hands
in penitential night –
he who sees
those lucent rings of love
about a diamond earth
sleeps within her and dreams in her sweet breath
and, after, flies still trembling
the numinous stark darkness of symbolic death
then speeds through apostolic space
to find his own lost universal face –
he who finds
the diatonic need of gods
for a string's pluck
and a scented dewed diadem of flower
is now shattered by the tick of simple
in a crowded hour –
he who reads an alphabet of leaves
touches the Great Tree
sent on a quest of whispers
travels the cliffs of his bones
swims in his own blood
through the caverns of his heart
learns the trined quaternity
of his every part
till shot out his skull in wonder
with a great and bitter cry –
who now has felt the tears of time
in his inconstant eye
has lost his senses to find sense
is reaching as a son
in passion for a father's fire
to bring immortal music
to a mortal lyre
recoil from Prometheus!
flee him, flee!
he but disturbs us
to our other, our own divinity!
love ever ends what time began
yet, man sets out to kill the god in him
and god, the man.
A.O.Howell