I was raised in rural Maine but after much crisscrossing and globetrotting am now living in Seattle, WA. I am the founder of Seven CirclePress and my own work has appeared in such journals as The Foundling Review, Eunoia Review and Red River Review. I have a strong penchant for pet rabbits and medieval history. More about me and my work can be found at www.sethjani.com.
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
A single, radial star
In the blizzard’s canvas.
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.
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.
©2015 Seth Jani