Exhaling

Buon giorno, amici.
I think it’s time for a new sonnet. One of my favorites, actually. Number four of the “Seven Sonnets Through the Dark:”

Nox luna inlustris
(a moonlit night)
“…to you I stretch out my hands. Like a parched land my soul thirsts for you.” Psalm 143

Left alone to contemplate the absence of my love,
Lie apostles on Ascension Friday morn;
Confusion skulking vaguely in the blood,
A longlost fear and brackish grief reborn.
With eyes new-bright to the meaning of this cross,
I see the blood He gave first came from her;
Mother-love is balm for souls deep rent by loss –
Like the eleven I draw near for her myrrh.
She proves that to ascend, we must bow down,
The way to rush toward Him is to be still;
She tills spirit for the Spirit, suffusing sterile ground
With fountains from two hearts pierced on a hill.
Anointed by this gentle light I rise,
Lead by a mother who renews and fructifies.