It’s fit we dedicate this holy day
(All days are holy — or else none) to those
Who slip between precious and plodding prose
To gambol in the trick-tongued jester’s way.
Slick-tongued and quick-tongued too, they sing and sting
These silver-souled, shapeshifting mouths of God,
The chosen who are Truth’s divining rod,
Both cursed and blessed, brushed by the Muse’s wing.
Come, trickster, madcap, come with fiery glee,
Between the cynic and the maudlin, come;
When all weighs heavy, when all hearts are dumb,
Come dancing with the shadows, wild and free.
In the beginning, first there was the Word;
First life, then death; now you, the infinite third.