I'm always starting over. something from a new Time Flowers:


Late September light in the backyard garden.
My voice faded, the garden fading,
and the light is mild and mellow, flickering
through curled-up dogwood leaves, reddening

to plum. Across the ridge, not far away,
Prospect Park leans outward, over the town. . .
how shall I fix your image? (Blackstone
garnered apples, Yellow Sweetings, in this air

– and nearby, too.) In some Sign of Jonah,
precipitating doom and mercy from on high?
Or might one improvise a fresco-tapestry –
those dancing maidens, languid Peace (Siena)?

I’ll show you the dusty photo. In the dove-light
of early autumn. Blind, washed-out eyes
open again (Easter, Epiphany). . . epiphanies.
Borne in broken-hearted vessel (Mournful-Bright).


Who has found the words for natural grace,
for love that goes to work in the world, humble,
invisible – accountable, uncounted – trembling
to serve that which it finds adorable (the universe)?

Love the Creator of all things lovable, thus
of life itself (the love we feed on, incalculable
mystery of infinite charity). . . thus am I unable
(like the rest) to represent such tenderness.

Nevertheless, I will attempt another fresco
(as Song of Songs, Cantiga de San Juan)
for the sake of sister-dove – for the only one
who can ease my trouble (troubadour-amigo).


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