From The Book of Hours, I.3
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I have many cossacked brothers living in the South:
their spectres rise through cloistered laurel.
Through humanity ablaze in their Madonnas I recognize
the ember of God - and often dream of young Titians.
But when I peer over the edge of myself,
God - my God - is dark.
A knot of a hundred buried roots drinking in silence.
All I know is that I arise out of this ferment whose
silence stills my branches
except for the rustle of the Wind.
Acknowledgment to Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy in Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God for the image of "ferment" from Rilke's word choice "Waerme".
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