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.

Carl Phillips