It’s a Dufay morning, a walled garden
filled with scent of mint and sweet douçaine of bees
where lies my lady, melismatic curves
caressed by sunlight polyphonic but not loud,
where I perform the rubrics of my vocation,
stitch two lives together with my lute’s quill.
Outside the walls of morning
the armed man swings Good Counsel’s severed head
and Saracens profane the holy wisdom.
But here, this morning, in this one holy hour,
all is well, and well worth praise to God.
©2012 Jeffrey Quick