Morning.
As the hummingbirds were hovering
At the awakening of the Morning Glory,
Awakening from the bowels of the sunrise
And you were basking and smacking your cherry lips,
As you sucked the dewdrops of the morning
I kissed you as you were blossoming and blooming...!!!
A Village Story.
Krishnakali In the village they call her the dark girl / but to me she is the flower Krishnakal
SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then...!!!
“Redwoods line the little pocket of near-the-sea park”
Redwoods line the little pocket of near-the-sea park
we deem John Muir’s proper lair,
trees clustered dreaming aloof yet not lonely,
so many serene and cunning uses in their green hair:
nests for animals, birds chiefly but not only,
where the feather-light mat of canopy seems to mint
flora like coin and can sound its light drum
to the skitter of woodpecker and rare salamander,
then the trunk’s grand long midriff
and shallowly-entrenched root-clutch
sending burl-shoots high or sideways,
subtle essence and all kinds of knowhow,
insect-survival hints held archive-deep in the bark,
cones ready to shoot seed and start
the deep earth-stirrings a little at a time warily,
in the urgent time when comes
heavily and smokily the fire.
Deep as passion the red and alive the glint
of sunlight igniting the green’s own brilliantine choir.
Half-burnt-out and hollow the giants fairly
shrug and sigh and aspire higher.
towering like mighty Ossians of Scotland
above the forest floor’s fern and sorrel,
above even the easy poetic grace of bay laurel.
And always the alive hum feeding the lyre,
the wind’s soft yet restive whirrings
through the redwood’s Aeolian harp strings.
Duino Elegies done! This, Rilke’s cry
to all his friends and lovers in blissed-out ink…
now I too feel the primordial “mountain high,
perched watchtower over my own just-scaled long heart-sink
upslope brutal to thighs, heels, shins, knees, ankles.
So nearly lost, so many times bruised, made lame:
gust-beaten twists, leg-braced torques up chimneys, at angles,
slips into the void avoided up slant moraine
broken as my eggshell scuffle and scramble.
Spread calm soft over my soul, pretend how vain
was the climb, or that this was all cat’s paw, goat’s nimble.
If I let amazement ricochet through this frame
joy goes into the gorge. Don’t undermine
what’s left. Be valley, be grape. Hold tight to your vine...!!!
Surprise.
I have held so much faith:
watered daily the roots of love
when every leaf of this tree was blasted
by freezing winds, every branch twisted by lies.
Too much salt I poured into the soil;
but nature is forgiving.
I know this. Head and heart, I know
that nature gives, forgives,
and blesses faith.
Spring returns because it will,
not begged, but built
on star's pull, on earth's tilt,
on leafmold's rotting pages.
Faith, have I not turned these sad, dead leaves?
So now when sweet sap learns again to rise,
when blossoms peel, unfold and glow,
and love with time grows wise,
why, my faith, my shy one,
do I feel so much surprise...???
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