The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, December 25, 2017

Questions At Christmas

Whether he was born in winter,
Whether he was crucified,
Lanced with pity by a soldier,
Whether the apostles lied,
I cannot say, we cannot know.
Around us the drifts of whiteness blow.

If he was love is he alive
Even in the deadest night.
Those who in his name contrive
To punish love, theirs is the blight
More desolate than winter fields.
Ask what love the story yields.

What love discerns us from our birth
If any love beneath these stars
Discerns the children of this earth?
Who is the mother of our years?
What is the meaning of our prayers?
What love is certain as our fears?

--David Mason 
 
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