THE SOUL

Velvet night orchard rain, soft falling.

Darkness on avenues descends.

None to our dwindling lamp-oil tends

to the light, dying down in us.

Its tiny flame is wavering, hasty

calling in vain the long lost soul,

which far too frail is, slender waisted

for one Lord’s prayer thus

and its redemption fleeing, wasted…

lunar translucence clouded – palling.