call it brave, call it saintly, call it love

I could never make a meal of skate again remembering you, brave wingless thing.

To God, who gives joy to my youth. Say it! Say it now...

Who am I to prune the surging crown?

just ordinary sunlight shimmering through a drizzling, autumn rain

if you go to Mass, you hear the near-perfect opening line in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God