In the hush of dawn’s eternal meadow,
three beasts convene beneath a haloed moon,
their wings unfurled like parchment scrolls of heaven,
each feather etched with runes of ancient tune.
The lion, crowned in gold and thunder’s mane,
sits central, regal, eyes of molten fire,
his breath a psalm that stirs the grasses’ grain,
a king whose roar once shook the seraph’s lyre.
To his left, the bull, alabaster-pure,
with horns that curve like crescent moons in flight,
his wings of ivory span the morning’s lure,
each pinion tipped with dawn’s unblemished light.
His gaze is steady, carved from marble calm,
a sentinel of fields where silence grows,
his hooves press earth to sing a hidden psalm,
where roots of time entwine with what he knows.
The fox, to right, a flame in fur and guile,
with wings of ember, sly and swift as thought,
his eyes two sparks that kindle truth’s beguile,
a whisperer of riddles wisdom wrought.
His tail, a comet’s arc, trails secrets bright,
each flick a verse in nature’s cryptic code,
he dances on the edge of dark and light,
where cunning carves the path the sages trode.
Before them lies the Book, its pages vast,
a tome of living script, inked by the stars,
its words in tongues of wind and shadow cast,
unbinding fates, unraveling scars.
The vellum breathes, each letter pulses slow,
a heartbeat shared by beast and boundless sky,
its margins bloom with glyphs that seem to grow,
as if the text itself could never die.
In one scene, wings eclipse the rising sun,
the lion’s paw rests gentle on the page,
the bull’s breath stirs the dust where truths are spun,
the fox’s grin foretells a coming age.
The moon, a silent witness, crowns their forms,
its silver light a bridge to realms unseen,
while meadow flowers bow to sacred storms,
their petals trembling in the Book’s demesne.
Another vision shifts—an elder joins,
his beard a cascade, white as winter’s veil,
his hands, like roots, turn pages with soft coins
of wisdom, each word a spark, each pause a tale.
A lamb, snow-soft, curls at the bull’s strong side,
its eyes twin pools of innocence divine,
the lion’s wings now shield, no longer pride,
the fox’s gaze reflects a truth benign.
A cross of light ascends behind their throng,
its beams a hymn that pierces clouded veils,
the Book now glows, its script a golden song,
where every beast and man in reverence kneels.
The air is thick with incense of the sod,
with clover, dew, and whispers of the divine,
each creature’s breath a prayer to the God
who wove their souls in patterns serpentine.
In yet another frame, the quartet reigns,
four faces now, four wings, four truths entwined,
the lion’s roar, the bull’s unyielding plains,
the fox’s wit, the eagle’s soar combined.
The Book’s vast leaves unfurl like rivers wide,
their text a map of cosmos, star, and soul,
each beast a guardian where the worlds collide,
their wings the sails that make the spirit whole.
The meadow hums, a choir of unseen choirs,
the grass a harp strung taut by hands of fate,
the Book, a hearth where everlasting fires
burn bright to ward off darkness and its weight.
No single truth can claim the beasts’ domain,
for lion, bull, and fox in chorus sing,
their wings a covenant, their hearts a chain,
that binds the mortal to the eternal spring.
O sacred trio, quartet, ever more,
your forms a mirror to the infinite,
the Book your altar, heaven’s open door,
where every soul may read and not submit.
In poetry’s embrace, your tale unfolds,
a tapestry of wing and word and light,
where beasts and scriptures blur the lines of old,
and guide the seeker through the endless night.
three beasts convene beneath a haloed moon,
their wings unfurled like parchment scrolls of heaven,
each feather etched with runes of ancient tune.
The lion, crowned in gold and thunder’s mane,
sits central, regal, eyes of molten fire,
his breath a psalm that stirs the grasses’ grain,
a king whose roar once shook the seraph’s lyre.
To his left, the bull, alabaster-pure,
with horns that curve like crescent moons in flight,
his wings of ivory span the morning’s lure,
each pinion tipped with dawn’s unblemished light.
His gaze is steady, carved from marble calm,
a sentinel of fields where silence grows,
his hooves press earth to sing a hidden psalm,
where roots of time entwine with what he knows.
The fox, to right, a flame in fur and guile,
with wings of ember, sly and swift as thought,
his eyes two sparks that kindle truth’s beguile,
a whisperer of riddles wisdom wrought.
His tail, a comet’s arc, trails secrets bright,
each flick a verse in nature’s cryptic code,
he dances on the edge of dark and light,
where cunning carves the path the sages trode.
Before them lies the Book, its pages vast,
a tome of living script, inked by the stars,
its words in tongues of wind and shadow cast,
unbinding fates, unraveling scars.
The vellum breathes, each letter pulses slow,
a heartbeat shared by beast and boundless sky,
its margins bloom with glyphs that seem to grow,
as if the text itself could never die.
In one scene, wings eclipse the rising sun,
the lion’s paw rests gentle on the page,
the bull’s breath stirs the dust where truths are spun,
the fox’s grin foretells a coming age.
The moon, a silent witness, crowns their forms,
its silver light a bridge to realms unseen,
while meadow flowers bow to sacred storms,
their petals trembling in the Book’s demesne.
Another vision shifts—an elder joins,
his beard a cascade, white as winter’s veil,
his hands, like roots, turn pages with soft coins
of wisdom, each word a spark, each pause a tale.
A lamb, snow-soft, curls at the bull’s strong side,
its eyes twin pools of innocence divine,
the lion’s wings now shield, no longer pride,
the fox’s gaze reflects a truth benign.
A cross of light ascends behind their throng,
its beams a hymn that pierces clouded veils,
the Book now glows, its script a golden song,
where every beast and man in reverence kneels.
The air is thick with incense of the sod,
with clover, dew, and whispers of the divine,
each creature’s breath a prayer to the God
who wove their souls in patterns serpentine.
In yet another frame, the quartet reigns,
four faces now, four wings, four truths entwined,
the lion’s roar, the bull’s unyielding plains,
the fox’s wit, the eagle’s soar combined.
The Book’s vast leaves unfurl like rivers wide,
their text a map of cosmos, star, and soul,
each beast a guardian where the worlds collide,
their wings the sails that make the spirit whole.
The meadow hums, a choir of unseen choirs,
the grass a harp strung taut by hands of fate,
the Book, a hearth where everlasting fires
burn bright to ward off darkness and its weight.
No single truth can claim the beasts’ domain,
for lion, bull, and fox in chorus sing,
their wings a covenant, their hearts a chain,
that binds the mortal to the eternal spring.
O sacred trio, quartet, ever more,
your forms a mirror to the infinite,
the Book your altar, heaven’s open door,
where every soul may read and not submit.
In poetry’s embrace, your tale unfolds,
a tapestry of wing and word and light,
where beasts and scriptures blur the lines of old,
and guide the seeker through the endless night.
The Sunday Circle