This strange light is not a cry

One of my favourite poets, Christian Wiman.

 

A Poem Is Not a Prayer

When the evening enters water,
the clear interior stained
and all in fire its minor sky;

when the sun like melted solder
burns into the green,
delineates the bones of each leaf;

the tree feels nothing,
the lake is not in pain,
this strange light is not a cry.

Nor does darkness bring relief.

 

 

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