Sitting still, beneath the sunlit sky,
The shadows from tree-tops above appear
On green grass, patterns form, where insects fly,
The rabbits feed, all eyes expressing fear–
The sound of traffic, passengers who look
Like friends and lovers last in other eyes
As Icons likewise do, texts in a book
more than the memories of poorer cries
seared deep into the mindful eye behind
the forest of symbols and their exchange,
the vision goes as meaning now: who finds
the other itself, if looks could kill, outrage!
My letter kills but one Spirit gives
the other resurrection. Thus, we live.
Don’t trust the Pharisaic old men, and those,
Who still, are blaming it all on the dead.
The price of worlds–intoxicating rose:
Impassioned–their assumptions always said.
Accusing, taking ‘way my dignity
Self-righteous, solitude without allot
Of individual feeling–suddenly
Beginning, in the mud and mire, and sod.
Entangled, up and start, may my cries,
Beyond the passage suffered, of broke faith,
–Noetic Catholic bells–our Father’s eyes,
The salmon crowding silver river paths,
Help me to walk without a sullen look,
All mindful of one ancient living book.
Now’s the time to love the present you
Have lived on bits of boyish bays and tears.
Now is the time in this our world, not new.
Old cloud-shapes overhead cause my fears
to chill my spinal liquid, stop my veins
as morning finches cease uncertainly
to sing, ‘till camouflaged in light again
on blue electric wires sit pleasantly.
Their tiny limbs seem immaterial.
But Angel tears can swell beyond compare
beyond the sensuous material.
Their eyes are burning. Eden’s guard is there;
the body-vines, unburnt–the burning bush.
The retinue of fruit returns a blush.