Coronation

You had an eye that saw, on hill and tree, A light not of the sun; you had a hand Gifted to hold a subtle brush, to catch The glory on a canvas for us blind. But not a master's hand, a servant's: its tools, Ladle and pan, scrub-brush, needle and thread By toil to prepare for us a place. More: to clasp a stranger's cold-stung hand And take her in; by light in-fleshed to warm Your daughter through the Shadowed Valley's chill.

Your light to us is dark now; glints remain Only, caught on these canvases, our selves; May you approach the place that Light had birth. May the Creator who took a servant's form Enfold your hand within his pierced ones, Escort you to the heights: His throne, his crown Alice, artist, bearer of God, and queen.

—For my mother