Transparent Beauty

Glory be to God for empty things
For trumpet-sounding turban shells on tidal shale
For church-vault cello echoes, chill and dim
Bells’ bellies swelling to the rock of rings
Heartspace, hollow as wooden ships under sail
Cliffs cleft by lightning, split to a ragged rim.

All things resonant, spacious, deep or shallow holes
Whatever is hollow, receptive, transparent-pale
Spilling nothingness over every acceptant brim
He fathers forth, we echoing empty souls
Praise Him.


After Hopkins

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