The Day is the Year is the Month
Not of passage but of transit
Evening to Morning, Dark to Light
And Seven Days decreed as a Week
Unmarked, of abstraction, not perception
And Seven of Seven is the Week of Weeks
Of Time marked by the Sun
The Pentecost and Jubilee is the Day
After Seven of Seven Days and Years
But of Time marked by the Moon,
the Seventh is the First, the First, the Seventh
And Seven of Seven is 42 months or 1260 Days
Now what do the Stars do for time?
A book was given,
but the man cannot read.
Another can read,
but cannot understand.
A book of secrets,
in a plain tongue.
A strange tongue given,
in seven of sevens,
in time, times and a half,
from the very first night,
the harvest is completed.
the fruition of the leaven of truth,
once a strange tongue,
coded in familiar languages;
unquenchably burns on altars.
a foreign bride awaits,
the reason a man leaves his family;
love shall be awakened and aroused,
for the time is right!
the light, fully revealed.
a child, a new creation:
King of kings for a thousand years,
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
— The End —