Until it unbegins, I
Watch the sky lifting.
The gray shines shimmering, opening
Into sun blue light, and
Washed by shifts in time and season,
The patina feels forgiving in
Vast mystery.
Almost there, I'm thinking,
The structures of my
Life as I define them,
Relief against the sky that
I forgot was waiting, and I
Start to shape some things
That might become significant
To me.
I've been watching for the
Hostas we transplanted along
The drive back to the barn,
Under maples, young maples maybe,
Some are up already,
Claiming my first glance
As I go about, but every day or so
I carefully step into the russet mulch,
Bend down a bit to shush away
The rich organics, looking for more
Furls of leaves emerging
From the winter.
Maybe this is all there is to
My small disturbance; maybe I'm
Not even quite sure just what
My unbalance really is. Maybe
It's the winding path that only goes
One way, weathering finally into
Color, feeling, gratitude, regret,
And love,
So of course I am from
Time to time unbalanced,
From time to time unhinged.
But then, I see that persistence, constancies, every scrap of life
Upon this earthly plain
Seeking integrity, some frail, some resolute,
Or maybe waiting
For completeness in the next beyond
Gives way to death and hostas
Proving there are miracles
On the journey,
Beautiful and in the way it is,
The pattern of unknown.
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