Wednesday, March 11, 2015

windows of ste. chapelle

The glassy rainstorm of the large rose window
shines like all of heaven is inside it,
the slender gothic pillars arch like willows,
hidden in the cryptic sunlight prism.

Suffused with the grace of home,
I wonder why I wandered so far from here,
and dallied in larger, coarser churches,
when, the lamps of the sanctuary
sparkling in the sweet stone sunshine
were as familiar to me as the
hall-light of the prairie
lit late at night.

The stones creak and heave deep moans,
like widows remembering a sweeter past,
and the air is doused in blinding incense,
even the curve of the wooden bench
caresses the small of my back.

I have wandered, I am sure,
into an enchanted world,
where time has stopped,
and beauties multiply,
Where all the truths spoken here
consume and transform all my lies.

Shimmering from the panes of glass,
the mysterious blue light shines
just like your eyes did in a winter storm.
Your eyes are utterly bewitching,
but now I feel caught in a trance,
enchanted by the expanse of sky
delivered to me in soldered glass.
I think that heaven's hidden there--
in the ragged trapezoid of sky
peeking from behind the stormy clouds,
there, in my old rose window--
just as it is hidden in your eyes.

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