Christ In Winter

THE COSMIC GARDENER

{for Inigo Jones}

Christ haunts the branches
Of my summer oaks,
His head and torso
Leaning forward, then recedes
Into the shadows
Washed in green.

Where will He be
In winter?

The crucifix implodes
Into the darkest leaves,
Will stay until the flame and dust
Of Autumn makes it fade,
Imperial gold.

The oaks, their serried ranks
Permit the wind
To barely twitch the weathercock
And shake the butane torch
Upon the patio.
The garden wall are sheathed
With lead and brass
And crowned with taut barbed wire.
Imagine searchlights, sirens, towers,
Turrets, and spears of bright
Stained glass to catch
The sun,
If there were a sun.

Within,through black iron flowers
That guard the window,
The hearth's spent dreams
Behind me, now behold!
The shroud of Jesus
Smoulders in the coals.

. . . . . .
I, the gardener, peer outward
And cry for ancient Light.
Light, the glory, sent him
Stumbling toward Damascus,
His whip transfigured
To a silver cord.
Light, when the dart's tip touched
Her flaming heart, russled her skirts
Like the wild spring tides.
Light, not the modern light,
The impasse to the great and small,
Light, the vulture of Prometheus.

. . . . . .
I, the gardener, peer outward.
The grand mechanick eyes and ears
Are fruitless as my own.
I see young Tycho voyaging
Past Jupiter and Saturn.
I hear old Tycho crying
In the ruins of Uraniborg.
I hear old Ptolemy laughing
In the wreck of Alexandria.

I am done with journeys.
Come now sweet Inner Light.

Max Edward Cordonnier
Illustration for an 80's poem