Pines dripped after rain, exhaling
heavy draughts of resin;
in that suspended hour before dawn
it felt like coming home
to convalesce, the threat of illness gone.
Lying in the curtained bed
I listened to the first cascade
of notes so rich and strange
as flowed from throats of rare
Byzantine birds, that sang
in palaces at break of day.
The light seeped through
magenta drapes, and stained like wine.
The flame afloat in oil
transformed the Holy Mother's face.