I do not know your name
wild singer,
or if you are as lovely
to the eyes
as to the ears.
But as winter wraps its pale fingers
around me, around everything,
your voice makes the gloom
irrelevant.
Your flourishes and your trills
and those notes that rhyme with holy
are laying something to rest within me,
yet I do not know your name.
I suppose that not everyone,
if anyone,
knows the true name of God.
I doubt he is diminished by the fact.
Listen to his messengers,
those wild singers.
– Gideon Heugh
Gideon Heugh 