I came across this poem by Madeleine L’Engle last evening and had to read it about three times to let the beauty and depth of it soak in. In recent years, I’ve been reading a lot of her non-fiction but a few months ago I purchased The Ordering of Love, a collection of her works of poetry. Once again, I’m reminded what a remarkable woman she was.
The sky is strung with glory.
Light threads from star to star
from sun to sun
a living harp.
I rejoice, I sing, I leap upwards to play.
The music is in light.
My fingers pluck the vibrant strings;
the notes pulse, throb, in exultant harmony;
I beat my wings against the strands
that reach across the galaxies
It is not I who play
it is the music
the music plays itself
small part of an innumerable
I am flung from note to note
impaled on melody
my wings are caught on throbbing filaments of light
the wild cords cut my pinions
my arms are outstretched
are bound by ropes of counterpoint
I am cross-eagled on the singing that is strung
from pulsing star
to flaming sun
I burn in a blaze of song.