Sunday, August 29, 2004

After A Miracle,

The head of the dove falls to the ground.
The same happens to the unicorn's horn, lost
like a little happy ending.
But I see how the sound of a violin
would look, wounded in a dark corner.

Remember the simplicity of a tree,
or hugging your father
in the transitions of day. He is smiling,
the lines on his face like strings
ready to be strummed.

Today I give you a field of grass
moving to and fro in the descending wind.
Stoop low, then; part the blades.
And you will find the head of the dove,
wingless and moving, stirring your life.

Saturday, August 21, 2004


by Czeslaw Milosz

We were riding through frozen fields
in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago.
Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movements, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

The Wild

What little I know of luminousness, I learned
from this: a cheerless child weaving into the night,
negotiating the paths of ghosts. He is ten, his frail hands
clutching small darknesses.

He doesn't understand fear.
The fireflies have drawn him out, the evening
a terrible beauty of jewels and gems. The house retreats,
farther and farther back, broken and tamed.

How he wants to touch the lights, to own them.
But he knows wildness cannot be held.
He just extends his hands, curls his fingers into a circle,
and peeks through, catching distant fireflies within.

I find him a short walk from the house,
caught in the tangle of night, arms straining
from the weight of what he cannot hold.
He is stabbing into the darkness, raging.

And if I come closer, I will hear his heart pounding
fiercely, keeping wild rhythms, child breaking

into light. But listen: we must let go of these things.
I keep back and let him be, broken, tamed.