Then the work began—
not in the hands, but in the inward grain.
I had thought myself a temple already—
finished, worthy, roofed in gold.
But you showed me roughness—
nothing monstrous, nothing grand—
only the common jut of self,
where pride snags the cloth and splits it.
So I struck at what was needless—
not in fury, but in measure:
a steady knocking in the dark,
a small gavel in the marrow
that would not grant despair its throne.
Each blow raised a quiet cloud—
motes wheeling like planets in your beam—
and I learned the hard arithmetic:
what falls away is often what I cherished.
You were an alchemist’s fire, O light.
Under your heat the leaden habits loosened,
old weights ran thin as metal in a crucible—
blackened first, then paling—
for the soul must pass through soot and salt
before it bears the blush of gold.
Still the air held drifting witness.
The brighter the lamp, the clearer the dust.
