All of the apostles, the fortune tellers, all of those committed
to the origins of reason or faith—each is now lost in the hum
of her or his own deepening meditation. What could be the purpose
of those songs the troubadour from Avignon brought us in his leather bag?
What could be the meaning of the carvings of green falcons along
the gourd-like back of his lute? What could be more useful than a loving
principle lifted slowly out of particles, like the frond of a morning fern
uncurling? Take up your coat; take up the morning. This is what it means
to lure the phantom out of the dark, until she lifts us into the space of song.
David St. John