Without warning, they appear, each
cluster separate from the next, gold
beads strung on strands of grass,
glowing on the darkest days beneath
the fringe of summer trees, though who
knows how, or where they came from?
Yet faith, not knowledge, is the source
of hope that each bright blossom brings
along with trust that though they’ll die,
seeds wait, unseen, to rise again.
Like stars, I think, obscured by day
that blaze across the sky at night,
or that which dwells in each of us,
however hidden, the sacred Spark,
perennial abiding light that darkness