The Fourth Nobel Truth
To lie back under the tallest
oldest trees. How far the stems
rise, rise
before
ribs of shelter
open!
To feel vibrate the enraptured
waterfall
flinging itself
unabating
down and down
to
clenched fists of rock.
Denise
Levertov
“To
Live in the Mercy of God”
There is only
one road in
and times are narrow
and times are wide.
Winter, who
pulled back her lips
and screeched for months without
ceasing
has stopped to catch her breath.
The old maple,
Great Hanger-On,
is the corner-life of this place
I am going. Or too
a little farther along,
the grey
hunched shoulders
of dozens of Quasimodos,
an orchard shaking
off sleep, who shoots her youth
straight into the ringing bell
of the sky
and aren’t random birds
her clapper
and random rains
her thirst aroused
and those hoary limbs
don’t they
whisper stories
when we aren’t
listening: about waiting
for the bees, all the shes
who slip into the bridal blossoms
and rob them
gently and dance their way back
succulently laden
while the petals, pink buds once,
drift like winter into
the cracks of the wailing
walls all the old farmers,
stone by stone,
stacked and tacked
to keep their sons
from stray…
One road
in.
And just past the
family
plot, see how
it swings left
or right
depending on
where you stand—
depending on
where the bees are
or the gloaming
bulge
of the fruit at
night, a knot
until October.
Or
depending on the
sun over the orchard
or the moon
and how, lying
on the grass
in front of
your name on the stone
how it all vanishes
and there is no
road
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