Louis E. Bourgeois

Homage to Søren Kierkegaard

When you died,
the druggist
hammered out his portions,

a peasant girl gathered
hay at the edge of a field--
flute music faded

through the square,
and a cock crowed at noon.

Father of nothingness
and dawn mist,
you knew all things

lay beyond the horizon
where winter always is.

Remind us, Father,
of the ice flowers,
of the small things,

the gulls flying
out of the fog,
the sea surf,

and how Christ
never stops bleeding
the infinite, the blue.