Descend

To one to whom the world is dark, O dove, descend. The shadows where he sits are stark— does darkness end? O, wound us with your piercing spark, and wounding, mend. Come forth on silent feathers, dove; drop down as rain. Turn graves to furrows—leaves spring up from sprouting grain— and let the one long lost to love take heart again. For now we fear the flame that burns, the tongue that speaks: too…