Under and above the net
of electric lines like strings
of some forgotten violin,
find echoes of Eden.
See the soar of gulls framed,
ephemerally, in triangles of wire.
Watch the scruffy robin fledgling
leap across the lawn--
such tiny legs, such great hops!
Cup lime/cream hydrangea spheres,
cool between palm and cheek.
Note each golden fistful of maple
helicopters affixed to branches
beneath the layered heavens.
Hear the haunting robin call
from childhood when you went
to bed before the light
had quite left the window.
of electric lines like strings
of some forgotten violin,
find echoes of Eden.
See the soar of gulls framed,
ephemerally, in triangles of wire.
Watch the scruffy robin fledgling
leap across the lawn--
such tiny legs, such great hops!
Cup lime/cream hydrangea spheres,
cool between palm and cheek.
Note each golden fistful of maple
helicopters affixed to branches
beneath the layered heavens.
Hear the haunting robin call
from childhood when you went
to bed before the light
had quite left the window.
You write with such consummate reverence for life, that it is always a joy to read your newest poems! "Watching Sunday Come" is no exception to the rule. I wonder if I'm alone in thinking this poem to be Jane Kenyon-like in its gentle immediacy, its awareness that the realities which surround us are indeed holy ground.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Thomas! Kenyon is one of my very favorite poets.
ReplyDelete