Deer in the Mist

Our hearts follow fox trails of passion,
but passion is kindling, is appetite, not love.

It is no surprise that battles rage on,
surround us with their danger,
supply us their suffering,
what astonishes is the singing,
in the soulless hour,
preceding any promise of dawn,
as though Christ and the Holy Ghost
just furnished all spring’s flowers with vocal folds,
the singers, now, unstoppable.

Wisdom says fear is driven over the cliff,
drowned in the sea by love.

Says, our spirit persists, nourished by the promise
of winter’s end,
by the warm smell of deer on the cut lawn,
coming through the dark mist,
by lingering
at brunch, on a patio with a friend.

Everywhere hope is pushed down
an angel springs up.
Hope is malleable,
but insisting on angels drives the angels away.

Everything real, happens first,
out of sight, in the far away furnaces of courage
which are fueled, not by passion, but love.

Love is forever.
But out of love,
love gives in to its own dying.

These are Wisdom’s two equations,
and they are one.