Same poem, different title. The original title belongs to T.S. Eliot alone. I back away slowly in fear and trembling…
Ash Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Begins again this Springward journey;
rebirthing all that once lived.
Trickle again once fickle brook and stream
sickle sighs yet in repose, sleeping still.
Earth, sore and Winter-stiff, seeks, sighs
stretches out skinny arms of want.
Her cold, hard bosom births not what soon will come
e’er the Sun’s hungry mouth suckles,
fills his lusty gut on hopeful barrenness
feasting on milk of timeworn, weary passage.
She forgets not the suddenness of late
and sooner dark, splayed upon a fine, greenness
come for to spite the buds of transforming light
bidding death where life has yet to emerge.
Warmly insistent she speaks, sharing her story
poured out over the long-shadowed land.
Bring such bothersome beauty to branchier speech,
fall around us, spilling, foaming such fury
and fermenting our soon-drunk wine of promise;
earthen spirit’s Eucharistic prayer.
Hush now, silence yourself bold coldness…
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