A gust of wind, a breath that moves, a god
in preparation sing the only song.
The startled cry is nothing. We are wrong
to fasten meanings, count the items, log
our bright epiphanies. The wind, the light,
the silence fill the trees with song, the seas
with bars of alternating motion. These
you have in morning, afternoon, and night.
Lean forward when the music comes
and gather nothing. Mastery of sums
and calculation cannot gauge the stark
enigma of a cloud or weigh the sky.
Be still. Communicate, create, and fly
into that choir ineffable, the dark.

2 Responses to “Song”

  1. Todd Says:

    Great poem! It started me thinking about Winslow Homer, and then Thomas Hart Benton.

  2. Carmi Says:

    Your use of imagery to tell a story is masterful. I need to let this one percolate in my head a little longer.

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