To my Transcendent

And with thee, I own the depths of Remembrance;
Through gale and gust, all place nears homestay.
Potent is the spice of Night his novelty raw,
Which withholds the wanton beauty: growth.
With wake of unknown, blessed is the moon, as
She shares with us the secrets of the sun. Of High
Things and dreams alike, rooted in the vestige of dark
Somehow she shines, willfully, wantingly on the souls
Of Us. Underground, still, reaching, beckoning
Calling forth the roots of Us that reach to soil’s base,
So that maybe we can reach higher to the starry skies.
But neither secrets spread when He descends with
The grant of growth, nor rising moon on this mysterious
Beauty, nor soul, root, or star glittering with warmth;
Nor growth after blight; nor grateful sunrise mild; nor
Vibrant Day with this his singsong bird; nor wonder
Up above, or blue sky without thee is sweet.

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