Wings Beating Black

                        “Und ein Bluemlein bracht
                        mitten im Kalten winter
                        wohl zu der halben Nacht.“

One hundred and twenty days of wings
beating black passed over,
beating savagely twelve times ten.

Yet, winter with her icy stare
regarded the coming Spring as Summer,
the last foe vanquished by her attack
and had no fear.

From the leafless prune tree,
a black-capped sprite
blinked lidless eyes at prophetic June,
those million feathers as black as night
and continued her one-toned tune:
“Verleih uns Frieden gnädiglich, Herr Gott,
zu unser Zeiten.”

The same black beating ten-to-the-seventh
had passed in autumn
the turning leaves whose chilling breath
already made solemn
the turning leaves and their tragic hue,
though you had seen only radiant leaves
repeat in summer season:
“Vergib unsere Shulden wie wir vergeben.”

“Someday,” you had said, “when wings beat again,”
but feathered June
that had brought the prune tree to flower
passed
and wings beat black over summer.
“Ach, bleib bei uns,
Herr Jesus Christ,
weil es nun Abend worden ist.“