By Clinton F. Larson


Sleep comes as night must come.
The almond gleam of light in the willows
Slips east to meet the subtle billows
Of darkness and the hum
Of smalling wings, as if God’s tallows,
Burning low, flicker out in the hallows
Of holy Christendom.
It smooths a cape of heavy green
Across the silken sheen
Of a day that slowly disappears,
Dimming under the spears
Of glory from a drowsy sun
That gilds the west, then naps, undone.

Of Youth and Time

Young youth is gone
and leaves me standing
in the spot of life
where Dad stood
when I entered
youngest youth.
Now being here
and where he was,
I see
that he
is further on
and in the part of life
where, when I reach
that part
where he is standing now,
he’ll be
to where life’s sand
runs thin
and bids to other things.
Youth was so short ago,
and when I think
that that much time again
will put me in my father’s place,
I see
how short the span of life
must really be.
And though
I envy youth’s hour gone,
I know
that after aging days,
new youth will come again—
And Dad and I
Will stand together in the time.


Speak aloud, grief!
Shout the whisperings
Of faith
Above my trembling pain.
He is gone.
You and I will be
For awhile.
Speak aloud, grief!
Shout the endings
I can hear beginnings.