Shreds: “Oran of Iona”

The gusts have brought me clues
That I prepare to weave,
A labyrinth of virtues and of ruse,
And an unknowing self to perceive.
Hold me back from explanations
As I descend the pebbled way,
Like a plunge of great precision,
To’rds the lofty sky o’ miracles’ sway.

The gusts did bring me blooms
Which I discern not from the souls
Nor sepulchers in colored plumes,
Nor lifeless bodies in their shoals,
In the frenzy of what’s solved
That collapses into assent,
And the trivial resolved
Under payment most content.

Thus, I clutch the lone boulder
In the ocean of grains ahead,
Bluish skies with veins of red,
Crimson strokes of regret spread
To which I cling in suffering;
Easy it can ne’er be,
If hard ‘twas the departing,
But harder still to admit to me.