There must come a winter for every seed. There must come that which protects and shields the seed toward spring, that which indeed gives its life and absorbs the hatred of winter for life, that mysterious essence which is the sacrificial aspect of life. It made the seed possible. It keeps the seed growing in the hidden ways of winter. It takes upon its heart the pangs of Christ-birth, the furor of all the Herods who represent that part of the race which bitterly had died, which had become death incarnate. She understood. He did not speak of such things. They must not be spoken within the seed. But every particle of it must know from within, in the silence.
A poem is a passionate prayer of song
with blessings from and for the faithful All,
an innocent, sacramental creation
remembering ancient tradition,
a gift of praise at an invisible altar,
and a lone priestly vision embraced
by sacred silence,
seeking forever the eternal unknown.