Soul Season

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Soul Season

Sonnet

I have shed old retinues as a tree in autumn,
A period of witherings governs my soul’s season.
No ledge for foothold, no crevice here to grip,
All is a steep mount-face nudging to fatal slip.

Too often I slide to a familiar ledge passed,
I regain terrain I know shall again be lost.
Yet I fear not the fall, nor the deep disabling inertia,
In me seem more barren terrains than all of Arabia.

My mind like sails wide and outspread awaits
Thy ferrying wind leading to Thy island of lights.
But no force stirs the waters of my consciousness,
My only company are thought murmurs and a silence.

Yet I feel Thy working, silently occultly preparing
For us Thy forever day and Thy perennial spring.