these January thoughts of you somber though they sometimes are, appear to me a colleciton of liturgies, delivered piece by peace into your more receptive wishes and possibly to be that, come again, i couldn't hear--oh. now the unveiled sky turns above, covers whisked away in the heat of the day--colors are through, just an Orion gaze, stately and true, but here and there and now move a little her wings span galaxies and i can't see them all... ,just-- hush. listen to the grass, close now to our naked ears. dark promontories of the earth will sway overhead, but the greater stage is hers