Tuesday, May 7, 2013

On A May Evening





It is hard trying to imagine - just being here-
It’s only when I hesitantly arrive, Do I know
That there are places, realer than any other-
And what meets us, on our own solitary terms
Can never be understand as a fact of life,


For there is no language, private or otherwise
That can read the smell of the approaching rain
That can paint meadows the exactness of green
That can intone the Kingfisher’s unique song,
For we are the boundary that can but observe


The critical difference between us and them
For there can be no crossing to that other side,
Without going back to places that never were,
For there is no art realer than can we imagine
In the unwritten acts of nature coming into being.