Ecstatic is the music
which winds us
a great wild force
higher than all that’s high
a continuous fountain
flooding
gushing spilling splashing
gurgling leaking flowing
all over
rushing streaking
flashing and flushed
in heaven
Flora abundant
on earth
Neptunus resplendant
& so
full of kindness, touching
a turnstone’s busy
ankles
and its soft brown eyes
and you and I.
For
storm clouds, aeons and all
which is untouched
roll in august splendour
in the oceans and the sky,
but beauty, intimacy and
rich so-sensually tender
lie – no, work their way –
in the valley’s side
and flow
toward the valley floor
where mud and much
much more
are intricate
to a character.
I know you,
I inhabit you,
I know every ecstatic
arch
of your body
every gift, every miracle
of your Light
Every fire.
Spring’s far stranger
than you or I,
great weaving
chromosome
of mud &
light
made
infinitely
filament-like
a fluff of inverted
parasols
& furs on the edge of
flight.
Downy curves
that smile up –
Oh there’s more,
more elegant and individual
the most particular of shapes
are Spring’s – the
beings,
before adapting to their share
of Summer’s
norm
they give me, well it
git me
a horn
of plenty, morn-
ing after morn.
Shallow
you may say
but sheer profusion
gives us all
a passport
(after nighttimes)
into DAY!
There has always been a ray
always golden fur on the edge of daytime’s dancing way
but O, for so long it hurt
because we shudder
with hate for our own greed
and never say, yet,
what it is in our hearts
to say:
that Love’s the
transfiguration of day
into
Grace –
the hand that lifts our child hearts
above the mechanics
of
the insecure
to Pray
That desire is a sort of
Divine Panic,
the onslaught
and the undertow,
the catch
between
the sacred and our need to
trash, the wave’s turn,
the need of good
dirt
in the petal’s dance
for light:
a knowing’s flash –
the burning that forgives.
O how
the honey bee – not the
real honey bee but a honey of a bee, a bumble,
honeyed of fur,
says ‘time’
time to wrap it all inside the
pollen halls,
to let it rattle amid
the bells
and clatter of flowers,
to be
with bees
and summer showers
and long and
(Oh, Yes!)
lazy
afternoons –
for God is not Love
at all until
Love is God