The soul feels small, looking up

at the spires of the old cathedral—

The world is a wheel and the trees
form a ring of spokes; when it turns,

the edge of the sky catches fire
and the soul wants a hand to hold

in such a flurry of dizzying purple
and gold. Still shy as when first

it ventured abroad, there it stands
tongue-tied in a roomful of people,

easily overlooked in the streets
with their theatre of noise.

Leave a Reply