For Sophia

There is a garden, low and dark

where trees grow shrouded in the mist.

Where raven drowns out hopeful lark

and cries alone to bleak abyss.

And, to these shadows, sings a voice

with lonely light born from its tongue.

And in this sound the trees rejoice –

This sound, ancient, yet ever young.

Forever known, yet ever new,

she dances amidst dreary sky.

She is the image of this soul –

She is the flame behind this eye.

And, though this shadow holds me here,

I too have seen this sacred form.

She has been all to be held dear –

She has been as a new world born.