At Little Gidding
In memoriam R.R.
Wheat fields without end lead me
To a hamlet with a pig farm near the church
Where I made a prayer for you,
Who led me so deeply into the lives
Of the poets, living and dead – into Eliot’s
Orphean descent into the depths
Of known and less known worlds:
An almost willing letting go and the return
To grace after the deep descent. The purge
That became my freedom, too, to descend.
Like the consolation of bread and honey
After fasting, I too, felt the return of a moment’s
Grace into my veins with the vernal wind’s
Promise and the transcendent epiphany.