|
And Welcome My
Friend, the Sun
I dust off the
purple corn
on my altar,
remember
the tiny green
ears growing
even now
unseen in
darkness.
Every day is a
day on the hill.
Is there one
cup in my cupboard,
one draft or
statement,
one look from
across the room,
one feather in
this wing
this is not
meant for my flight?
The world is
my high cave
and prayer
shall. I back away
from the
sticky useless tangle.
None of those
positions are real.
I visit the
field
at night, at
night I see
how they dance
around me.
I go to the
corn at dawn,
turn the water
in, stand
in the
gurgling mud...
|
