AND I TELL MYSELF
And I tell myself
even when the windfall under the apple-tree
is not gathered up and tasted,
even when it’s left to waste
in its own sweetness,
without even so much as a thought
of its being a gift, a donation,
or lamenting its degeneration,
without purpose or compliance
it goes on bearing.
What is it being effortlessly true to
if not water and sun, leaf and soil,
the labour of worlds and atoms and stars,
not the work of a single hand,
nor the toil of a definition
but the creative collaboration of everything
in the expression of a form
that is the first and last word
of a language that puts its finger to its lips?
Everything you see is keeping the same secret
closer to its heart than life
even though its very existence
gives it away.
Apple. Star. Moon.You. Me.
Not signs aligned by the hidden grammar
in the voice of God
commanding a world of nouns to be,
but the transformative clarity of unending verbs.
The Alone expressing the Alone to the Alone
in its native incoherence.
Shadow-water on the moon.
The light falling like eyes of rain
to the roots of the brain
that flowers into awareness
and not a leaf on the stream
that was taught how to write.
Autumn burns like the libraries of Alexandria.
You can read books about it
by the light of the stars
in an hourglass
late at night
suspended in time
like a homey window,
or you can dare your own freedom
and live like a jewel of water in a desert.
You can gather stars around your fire
like eyes out of the darkness
deepened like sacred wells
by the secret felicities of night,
and gratify the sky’s appetite for stories
when your voice flares up like the wind
and it isn’t the air, it isn’t the tree,
it isn’t the leaves,
it’s your own mind singing
as it carves guitars
out of its ageless heartwood
that anyone can play
from the inside out
as easily as they play their own body.