More on: nature

I was fire from which air is withheld, a charged element.

Wanting to be that place where inner and outer meet, this morning I’m listening to the river inside, also to the river out the window, river of sun and branch shadow, muskrat and mallard, heron, and the rattled cry of the kingfisher. Out there is a tree whose roots the river has washed so often…

the white-haired child is there, upright in the mire a son of Adam seeking the orient within seeing himself in the eyes of the pack that combs the countryside, spurred on by brass horns his fortune has no bounds he pores over matter which unnerves his world especially the timid ones striding on ibis legs,…

when somebody knocks on my door it’s God asking for shelter make yourself at home and recite for me please a sacred song from your native land you who live in exile in the West and the wistful lines of your ancient poem in what language do you speak to mortals in groves we’re promised…

My one-year-old grandson John has climbed up on the couch where I have been reading Updike, and, standing, looks out the window to the lilacs where a catbird spills itself in long bursts of toowees, cluks, whooits and meows and now he, too, finds his way to runs of throaty vowels and a comedic tumble…

Vigilante couchant on a pillow of air at hover in the Hopkins-eye; excess of fire, self-contained, prone to set the heather steppes ablaze: Rufus Raptor, of the falcon family, master of the chimney-stack, mistress of the house-sparrows flustering beneath in the gutter-dust; Prospero of the island, of moorland and coast, upland and down, power-bolt out…

The bow drops. The baton slips from a hand. Can one conduct trees? In the Lacrimosa the violins rush to set up tall trunks in an autumn wood. In the chancel amber leaves flicker. Death descends from the pulpit, a traveling peddler in rented garb. The church cracks open like a jewel case. A vaulting…

This is a rich, mighty martyrdom.              —Santa Teresa de Ávila, The Book of Life You bind my hands with saliva, then turn three times round my waist and ensure your victory with a knot without a loophole. You’re a snail, binding the hands of the rain. You rend the night any which way…

Maker of heaven and earth ——-of time and season Thinker-upper of soil —— of autumn decay, and rot and roots drawing nutrients ——-whatever they are that feed and sustain —— the beauty of the lilies, and the violets Imagineer of variety Puller-offer of the impossible breaking our hearts ——-every spring day ——-with greater magnolia blossom ————–finer,…

I am the whisper matches rattle in their cold and boxy hovels. I’m desire gone to ground. I am efficient, almost secret; you can read in me such scripture of the most compacted and contented red-light district. Impish sample seraph, humblest in lust, I am the apocryphalest rumor waiting just around the corner. See me…