This time of year

(20-21 January 1992) after William Shakespeare

Where steps have crossed the grass before a church on Peachtree, the snow’s melted in puddles, but wind blows black and cold against the faith, against the faith and youthful crush of love. In Atlanta is a cross the South bears— love crossed by tragedy, depravation of war, of pride, of love, crossed by war, or pride that effort and the black night don’t hide. Born of such a place, what has clung in me that cannot be shaken by cold or time or be consumed in a nourishing warmth? I reach back, in, and find the guilt and pain. This only strengthens something in you—love needs mystery; devotion needs a cause.