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First Sunday

In Advent, the hermit lights a candle-end,Drips wax onto a saucer, stands it there.The early nightfall forms itself aroundThis little shivering flame. He says his prayer:Stir up Thy power, Lord. Outside, the windHas risen. Rain flicks its fingers at the window.He’s alone. God’s called him to . . . . Continue Reading »

Cutting Down Chrysanthemums

“What we call the beginning is often the endAnd to make an end is to make a beginning.The end is where we start from.”              —T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets (“Little Gidding”) The end is where we start from. This last choreOf Autumn must be . . . . Continue Reading »

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