Locomotives
In the guise of oxen
Enter the village with humility,
Heads down, sweaty
From chugging up the street,
Hauling the resurrection
Bells to the chapel.
Lowing, gospel sounds
Drift like incense
Among the faithful
Wrapped
In frost-crusted robes.
*
Mistaking song
For sorrow and longing
For notes of Spring,
My dearest secret
Calls out to me
Over snow-capped
Hills at sunset,
Reveals its pining
Location:
Not a map, but a flame.
*
Practicing caress, reaching its
Tiny hands to fence rails,
Windowsills, fingers of the spruce,
The falling snow
Attains love’s earthly shape
By touch, consecration, embrace.
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