I lay sleeping in a cold nowhere:
A light-filled hand touched my stiff heart,
A voice filled with lightning brought me back
To where I always am, at his feet.
He is the pasture where the lambs play,
He is the stones that make the brook sing,
He is the breath, I am the flute,
Together our fingers shape the notes.
Now that I live again, I will seek
Your grave, my hand burning with his light
Yet not consumed. I will melt your frost
With this hot song: in him we shall dance.
Eugene Warren taught literature and writing at the University of Missouri in Rolla when this poem appeared.
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