That past is least predictable,
Which might have cast the healing spell,
Slim echo of the madrigal
Drawn out of some abandoned well
Where wishes once flowed easily
And fast enough to be construed
As miracles and prophecy;
Small crosses fashioned from old wood.
All offerings anticipate
Such future unaffordable
Without the fire that's said to wait
Some place beyond believable.
Lost words lay stalled on blotted page,
Conceived like orphans sent to rage.