At the window which holds

The old sandalwood, its gilt worn away

From its viol glittering

As it used to with flute or lute 

It is the pale saint, spreading open

The old book that unfolds

The streaming Magnificat

As it used to at vespers and compline 

At this glass of a monstrance

Touched by the harp of an angel

Formed by his evening flight

For the delicate tip 

Of a finger that, without the old sandalwood

Nor the old book, she poises

On the instrument’s plumage,

Musician of silence

05/05/2008