WALKING ALONG THE ROAD WE STOP NEAR A STREAM IN SPRINGTIME
You have found bits of song caught
In the spillway of a beaver dam. They
Are church-like in their praising. They shake
The collection of sticks
Piercing the face of the dam like so many
Bayonets. A rain begins and spills
Upon the surface of the pool, each drop a book,
A crowd, a child, a Golden Heart siging to the fools,
To what is left of the dancers, the poor shoulders
Of the river made to bear a cascade of tears.
They have built a monument on the edge
Of a cliff. It is impossible to get close enough
To look at it without plunging into the mind of God.
We stand watching the little fires in its towers,
The pitiful way it seems to contemplate the end
Of day. A vibrant eye peers from every window,
Some of them weep as only ones who have seen murder
Can weep. Ships send up flares to illuminate this place.
We walk along the edge of the pond where the grass
Grows tall and yellow. We stop and kiss each other
Before deciding to lie in this place and create
Another world, full of wings and the silence invented by snow.
We are unquenchable as acrobats before the highest throne.
House, knife, wonder, tears, cold, a flute,
Lambs, bridges, hills, the beautiful dark,
Silver bells opening like journeys, a crying,
Weaving a web around the heart that it may
Not break. All of the heavens resting
In the corners of your smile.
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