In these dark times
so distant from your own
your illuminated page
becomes both
window and mirror.
Though you worked alone,
anonymous,
in a cold room,
often hungry
from scarcity
or dedicated fast,
dressed in the humble robes
of your drab order,
you made a brilliant splendor
on blank parchment
taking endless care
with each mark
each pattern
each drop of precious blue
burnishing it with gold leaf
to honor the gift-
the hope of redemption
beyond the sufferings of flesh.
Inside the great initial C
drawn like a circle
with an open gate,
like a vessel set to pour
a stream of water,
wine, or grace
onto a world of dry thirst,
fulfilling the promise
of completion-
you painted judgement day
not full of fire and demons
but of men pulled up
through broken earth,
re-embodied, whole,
looking for rescue,
forgiveness, and relief
from the calm figure of a god
more sad than vengeful
who might not lift them
to higher ground
but will not consume them
in obliterating fire.
And in my time
so far from yours
this page shines out
with a defiant shout
against the dark-
making beauty
to defy the press of death-
reminding us that always
and everywhere,
against any odds
we draw our own way
to salvation.
Metropolitan Museum 1 -2-3-4-5-6
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