Tonight we will circle
the tall trunks of these candles
with a wheel of pine and cedar,
twine sprigs of Veni, Veni
into this compass with many needles
pointing us to what's been lost,
scattered to the periphery
of its open-coned center.
In weeks to come
we will light with the awestruck matches
of our tongues a Word waxing unseen
to the waning of these tapers;
a branch pushing through
the undergrowth of our waiting
that fires within us
this burning toward the green.
Daniel Mills was studying at St. Martin's College in Lacey, Washington, when this poem appeared.
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