We are consumers of grace,
A forever renewable greenery
Gardened by a gatekeeping horizon
Opening and closing its borders
Before our dream-bespectacled scrutinization,
Feeding our numbness alternately
with empty words and promises.
Even when your mind seems like a desert,
Or an urbanized concrete grayness,
Your spirit remains a thick green wilderness
Unharmed by matchete knives or sickles,
With impulses like wild animals, elusive,
Fleeting, but strong and muscled and impossible
To cage and tame.
The morning is white and
Sinless in its Christening gown.
The sea half-dark in the low
Under the paling February sky
A network of narrow light shafts,
Matronly guarding islands
Like deep green
Sharp Rock-layered cliffs,
Pour, from invisible palms,
Grace over the cupped land.
All stretches out,
Changeable, dim and moody.
A bright-lit swathe of
And an intricate web of bays
Still admitting the inscrutable
Tides of cognition.
There is a clear audacious
Aftermath of night in the morning air.
It as though the wingspan of a nautical bird
Or a home bound swan has left
Its sweeping behind:
A barely perceivable aura of voyaging,
Scattered in the snow like a rodent’s
Erratic paw prints.
It is as though gravity itself has been lifted
For a moment’s rendezvous
Between heaven and earth, stars and cold palms.
And I swoon as my body becomes weightless
And a sense of eternity threatens
To whisk me away.
That is when I hear you rummaging in the kitchen,
And the scent of your morning coffee
Settles me back into
My love-hungry body.
When I stand by the sea
On a slanting black cliff,
I hear myself echoing the waves.
And in the pit of my humanity
A stream stirs to life,
Pulling towards the horizon.
I let that tender unity
Pour out of me,
until I am stretched
Far beyond the visible horizon.