Thursday, March 19, 2009

Earth and Sky

The Sunsets of Joel

We see a church from afar
and a bell, tolling the meek
into recollection, announcing

the hour. A plant grows
stedily by the sill with
a little care and some light.

And I wonder what it would
dream of, if it could dream.
Distance is paraphrased into

the strange formations of clouds,
none of them ever the same.
And while my friend begins playing

an old song, I forget why I am
heavy with loss. It must be the view
from that window. It must be

the weak red arcs of heat that
reach me and form soft-edged
tiles of sunlight in the room.

Wherever we are, we are home
at the end of the day. Each end
something good and old, announcing

that it is time you stare out into that great
dome, its billion feathers wiping blue away,
transcending body, lifting up the night.



Every day, come summer, I fear for
the limitations of our two-toned seasons

and for my garden. And I hate leaving
the house for vacations. Because

the equation is simple enough:
the tragedy of wailing afternoons

filled with fire trucks and heated
news about weather, or wilting

flowers. These tropical depressions,
they attend to the greenhouse

like a crowded congregation
waiting for glorious homilies,

that assuring voice of the pastor
who loves greenery and God

yet offering nothing more than
coming months of restless clouds

finally obeying, some holy water
for cleansing, or warm wine. Also,

another garden teeming with
just the right amount of rain-

fallen apples: fiery red, fresh,
and sinless come harvest time.


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