7
To be in a little backyard garden in America
on a brilliant day in June, shining in plenitude,
splendor... I count myself lucky – my gratitude
welling from artesian vein, out on the prairie.
To accompany an old forlornness (prodigal,
homesick). As ineluctably, imperturbably,
the year climbs toward akme – Bloomsday
jubilee, sun-perihelion – the whole pleroma
coincides... aligns this moment with old years
gone by. Measureless summers in Mendelssohn
(or rather, summer’s intimations of infinity). One
solemn hilltop iron sounds, droning... Vladimir’s
(Nabokov, in Petersburg). & now I sense
a universal congruence, orthogonal... an upright,
cosmic Rome, vast, free & equable; full of delight.
Each planet scores a Providential masque – immense
high hymn of restoration (Georgic, of the Garden).
Its plot furrows the brow of every Eve, each Adam –
prodigal children of an errant plowman (Ham,
Shem, Japheth... every one). & mine,
as well. Sursum corda... let metaphysical Hope
lift up your heart. As resolute Nadezhda
was sustained, persistent, on her own hard
long Lanthanum Road... by a goldfinch trope
of clear & singing air (tropic, salty... Crimean
tune). Let this moist limb of milky air suffuse
your life, child-planet; let the bell ring (yours);
& may Mnemosyne be ever green (pine-paean).
6.16.12
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