+From the Feast of All Saints, A.D. MMXVIII
She sang from where I could not hear her sing,
but I was not the one for whom she sang.
My voice now rises as it never has.
Though quaking through this valley’s tears,
my bass & tenor trembling aches for hers.
Your furnace stoked by bellows burns away
the woven distance to her absent song,
impressing in your heart the harmony
her voice had sought, although, without my own.
Does she still sing or is she out of breath?
I hear her whispers through my agonies,
though I cannot be sure that they are hers.
My breathless tremble leans as my voice
fails: a listening rest waiting for these tears.