AMBER GLASS
The oak we put into the ground
last fall is budding now.
& on the third day... how?
On this I muse like Uncas Pound
here in my octagonal hut
of scrawny cedar. 8’s
for Easter, numerates
relate – Creation’s รจ finit;
when the dark goggles of infinity
stood upright (a snowman
merging into green
spring cloverleaf). Might be.
They say they saved the high windows
in Paris. Where simple light
grows warm, exfoliate
around the Lady of the burning Rose.
Wheels, wheels... the suffering peoples.
Is Providence intangible?
Life but a negligible
haze, wisping stark silo-steeples?
These sprinklings of amber glass
are darkened with maroon
shadows. Limbs of someone
hovering so close... a beaming face.
Then I shall know, even as I
am known. Even as
this acorn opens, grows...
sturdy communion of a melting sigh.
4.19.19
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