Porthole


Those hours spent infinitely alone
In the gray washes of morning light.

The childhood hand reaching through
A pause in the curvature of time

To grasp an apple eaten long ago,
A kiss forgotten by the mouth.

The plot of a life halfway lived
Is backed by the ghosts of memory.

What is still unborn moves 
Towards us,

A single, radial star
In the blizzard’s canvas. 





Force


Nothing more holy than the snow
Outside the window
And the thunder inside
Burning all night.

Nothing besides the earthenware 
Glaze of stars
On the roof of forests
While the sun goes down.

Nothing besides the deep, heart-bound thirst,
The internal plant-like longing,
That burgeons from the mouth
And flowers overhead.

That subterranean machine
That compels the body,
That rages wars,
That sings of god.

Nothing more holy besides
The magnetic, unnameable force
That welds our lives
Firmly to the earth.





Thawing-Time


Whatever issues today from the grass
Issues from the heart as well:
The songs of spring bursting
From winter’s absence,
The soft voices of the just-born 
And the just-departed
Rung-out in acclamation,
The car’s motor whirring into warmth,
The endless golden sound
Of a world bathed in light.

And whatever was dark turns its head,
Mouth open to the rain.
And whatever was unloved turns its heart,
Depths open to the earth.
And in the quiet, partial wake
Of the resurrected year
The songbirds began to praise.