Starry stubs of light
pool time in waxen white
flowing from this shadowed season
when sadness should be bright
In darkness tinged with light
we wait the coming time
when God sneaks in like treason
and all will be made right
But this time it's different
The subtle shades of Lent
look more like darkened joy,
like the negative of a print
Everything is going in reverse
all the bright is coming first,
and then darkness rushes in
swallowing the light of the universe
Is there Easter at the end,
or a deeper darkness to wend
through before day rises,
edged in shade as I am unmade?
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