the devil was in the details

the changing year, the animal longing still on us; 

the changing year, and the animal longing.

This day, of all days, makes you hark for the Bright Feast; as the years collect the moments of our lost lives, the desert of the heart in a pagan year remains unbroken. 

The grain of wood in the woods is unknown; so, too, your heart. This strangeness, deeply familiar. The accumulation of details, of intuitions and imaginings, even as understanding escapes you, lacks Form. the world, the bright face, the resplendent image, the idols of your heart, brought to the surface, only to die. Lord, what is this longing but a type of blindness?