And only later will I write
of the gossamer purity of these hours,
these moments waxed angelic golden
in the humming of the sun.
of ripping asunder to grow,
to plant,
to tear to torn
in bitter milks.
of genus,
of species,
taxonomies yet unknown,
tauntingly familiar fragments
of a past knowing lingers,
loose wisdom in the ethers.
of what is taken
and what is chosen to stay,
bestowings of grace everyday
as we nurture the domestic few.
of small mercies everyday.
it’s so beautiful to go bare feet,
she says as he sleeps.
a gift as others are taken away.
a luna broken thin
to silken glassine green,
the heads of cover torn off
by each passing of toes,
perfuming my path in airs of paradise
a wild’s flute,
the sparrow’s song again.
of usefulness and joy,
the realness of thirst,
the spilling of waters.
I never yet wrote
of the Adirondack webs,
dripping veils between the stalks,
raising morning
of the grey jeweled dawn,
of the dark echoing stillnesses
as the land cups to hold you through the night
of small mercies everyday.
