A sonnet

A blustery day, a thrill of flying blue
A shard of heaven’s love for all beheld
Persimmon, pasture, field are all made new
Being’s all analogous I’m told
A shamrock’s not in truth a trinity
And Juliet was not a shining sun
The beehive barely echoes any city
Parmenides was wrong to say all’s One
And yet the bluebird brings a bit of grace
Contrasting with the brown and verdant green
For those with eyes to see the glorious face
By opening the heart to the unseen
All voices, hymns and songs together urge
That everything which rises must converge.