All Saint`s Day Poem by Leslie Philibert

A bleached evening, grey
my memory follows me into the cold

the ice records my steps, and peeks
at my afraid progress.

I lay in humility on the damp earth
a priest unable to bear the face of God,

the trees make a lot of noise, the feel as
important as a kestrel in balance with the sky

my face is a forgotten piece of washing on a line
as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind.

Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been
turned into foulness, gold and silver behind glass.