Winter Dawn's Praise

Sometimes the Dawn's light comes not in rose hues.

He works His way aloft at Night's shift's end

Or climbs the vaulted stairwell at Day's fresh bend

While clad in robes of chill and twilight blue.

He edges, imperceptibly, at first.

He doesn't crack, but grows and pushes forth:

Quiet crescendo slightly right of North.

In dark, His face spills, flowing light; breath's burst.

The winter's Dawn is insulated; snow

Accumulations azure, without sound.

I shared with morn my song; no finch I found.

A gift I sing to winter Dawn's ice flows.

The season's cold, still Dawn I shall revere;

With Dawn's goodwill I pass through storms severe.

Subsistence

I dare recall the days of dewy mist

When the expectant air parted, like lips

Through which the gloried names of Gods persist.

How dwindled now their offerings--but pips--

When first of harvest's fruits we once did give.

In ignorance our wants Their needs eclipsed. 

Primordial, the Deities still live.

With prayer and song we lift our hopes once more.

The thorny chaff of mishap They do sieve.

When we shall seek Their goodly grace, a door

Will part. When in good faith we make amends

We heal the broken bonds; the roots restore.

Entanglement of worries we resist

With strength. In good relations we subsist.