Friday, November 9, 2012

Immaculate Each Leaf, and Every Flower

And everywhere the smaller birds again noising, filling
steadily all the cracks between spells of rain…


As if song could still mean something useful.


Or a kind of pleasure, like forgiveness, came easily and,
summer storm that forgiveness is, passed quickly through.


And the undersong that has been your own voice saying No –
No I’m not afraid.


                       What we cannot do

              What we cannot undo

                                      All the work we must do

As for ruin – yes, but faintly.


The gray of doves.  The gray of doves, in shadow.

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