the day is yet unripe
and so we clamor to our knees
to beg a little loving light
a little crack of light
to break through the prismed panes
that surround us.

sifting through the dreams of nights
not just ours
but history’s
recorded dreams unscrolled in our minds,
we subsist on the stories told—
the scriptural truths in bits
sized to our hunger and seasoned
to taste so that we have sampled
a spectrum of lights with our tongue
gleaming in the radiance of morning
revelations
sung in flowing chords
as viscous as the oil lamps we burn
during dark shadows.

though we become turgid with expectation,
our joints twitching for His return,
we wash the stained windows
to let through the rays,
and filter through the rough
as a day of sacrifice
for every tarnished doorknob that needs polished
by our prayer
we crawl our way up
the mountain crag and nestle
in a hidden nook
keeping both eyes vigilant
for His shadow to cross the garden path,
to oust the dark of night
and call us home for dinner.


Atalie Young ’05 is an English and American Literature and Language concentrator in Quincy House.

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