Sharon Dolin

 

Scissored In (3 p.m.)

 

More fraught than at noon is this

three o’clock dour when I must scale 

this solitary hover the unblinking shower

of thunder                        I’m thistled- and

anemone-stained             unwrung

by the black dog              unsown

by the blue hour my broodings have scissored me in

to the wave frond of what has or might have been

Permit me to enter behind the scrim

inside the emerald grotto and let the fanged cur

beware of the red griffon (cave canem

in Your effulgent cave)

who guards this afternoon glower of

turning back of faltering under the currents

O I am become the windflower anemone undone

in spring             left to tremble in Your waning wind-light—

the forsaken one

I still trust in You             I still believe You will deliver me

in this temple hour                        Split me open

at the stem let these outpourings be

libations on Your cloudy altar

Let my faith bristle like the thistle             Be me royal-hued

harsh in the desert             I wait for You in the moody marsh—upon

the dusty plain—in the lost woods—at my lambent desk—my wind’s

eye in the garden of no turning back                 O lift me up

Accept this sun-declined song            I wait for You

I abide in You                        Selah