by Robert D. Drapeau
In dark days and death I am dressed—
planted and buried and pressed, and yet,
I fear no evil.
Though all about me, fallen or thrown,
are grown chokers and thieves,
I, still, will fear no evil.
Astir, the life within me quickens—
jumping, punching through the slipped seed-skin,
thrusting, trusting toward the illuminating
Light of the World,
whose penetrating spade-rays split soil, un-
coiling tendrils, drawing stalks skyward,
upward, from dust to Destiny,
where eye has not seen nor ear heard
the things prepared for one
who reaches out
day by day.
Night falling is not light failing, but eyes fading.
The degrading quality of sight denotes
the faithful decrescendo
to earth, where Man, from birth,
has sprung, sung, and slumbered,
shuttering eyes, shuddering sighs,
seeking again the stillness of surrender,
waiting to be removed.