We roll the stone of poetry, and thus
transmute the base metal of suffering
into a golden scrim of rare device,
a fitting gift to be returned to God.

By it we know that all our trivial pain
is just a carlacue in a design
beyond ourselves, already perfect (with
the possible exception of ourselves).

Through it we join the perfection, and see
the glory spread before us, and we hear
profound celestial music, and we feel
the wind of the divine, and have our peace.

February 10, 1996

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