Certitude

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Certitude

Sonnet

How many vacillations have passed within,
Like the shifting seasons, a severe summer
Of hot labours, the pinings of warmthless winter
And a too brief wasted spring the cycle to begin.

How many masks the ego has passionately worn,
Such expense of passion to uphold an appearance,
Each a conduit for an energy’s emergence
But none satiates hunger of the soul here born.

Yet a settled certitude is born in me,
It lords my being and governs my thought,
Under its gaze my works are wrought.
It abides in an air my eyes can’t yet see.

O certitude, O herald begin thy summons,
May His coming end cycling human seasons.