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.
A place in the sun
Where birds cross
And cross again on the wind
Breathes your spirit.
A shimmering swathe of
To brush the tears away.
And a voice,
No more than a whispering
Echo of a gentle breeze,
Falls into consciousness
From the farthest margin of our being;
The resting point of oceans,
Moving us, in shining certainty, along
The cluttered existence
We are nothing but earth’s shadows;
The echo of a crane’s cry: cold and wild on the fells,
Marking the unmapped wasteland within.
Our bodies are like the white trees of winter
Dancing in the grip of damaged hands
To the steady movement of time
Across the sky.
I lie on my back Watching
snow heavy clouds drift across the sky
Like icicled wings of swans
Pounding the horizon
As if to split the light asunder.
And I see my own life Silhouetted
Like an invisible undersea reef
Burning in the grip
Of the clear, sharp sunset.