Anam Cara

THE CROWNING WITH THORNS

The thorns woven to your head are nothing

Like the emptiness loosening your mind

From the terse mountains where you served your time

Seeking the hearth in the loneliness of things.

Then that slow glimpse of three faces concresced

In a circle of infinitely gentle gaze

Trusting each thing out of air into form,

Showed you belong to this first tenderness.

You earth divine flame in a young man’s frame.

Things rush your senses offering their essence.

Now the earth clenches against you, cold and closed

In a yard forsaken by every name.

On crucifixion duty, bored with routine

The soldiers start mocking and crown you king.