Saturday, March 21, 2009
It drew me to itself
Like a room reserved
The song of surprise
In the spring of simply
Non-winter when the
Weather is cold and
Raw and undecided
In its efforts to allow
The sun a more prominent
Place. The bird, this
Morning bird whose
Ancestors have known
The time and no matter
The feel of spring; there
Is a subtler urgency
That moves beyond this
Human ability to know
Just where the demarcation
Line is --
Not air not flame not sea
Not ground
The lark has returned
And so too the robin’s song
There is nothing grander
No orchestra, no concert hall
Can remand, in this time, us to
Our prison cells of info-tainment
Where distribution of gems that
Court the ego’s restoration may
Calm the nerves of a higher order
Of tantilation. It will not happen
Now that we can be reached
On some soul level except
Maybe the lark and robin
Who hold on to a stronger
Claim of flame and sea and
Ground and air --
Yank my heart of all despair.
No comments:
Post a Comment