8.07.2019

throned upon dignity




MY GROUND

The muse of my Ravenna poem
is secret & silent, hidden
in quiet like that Belgian
Isis – adamant black Mom

throned upon dignity in West Branch
shaded by old oaks
& the whisper of spokes
on a windmill (over limitless green avalanche

of cornfields).  She is my implicit
First Mower – my ground
of whispering midwestern sound;
Hobo, curled by his sprung rivulet,

her loving servant & factotum
& my bosom pal;
we three walk out of Hell
by the glow of one sole lux humanum

an eye-in-hand, like that manifest
benign donation of a palm
opening from the cosmic realm
above Transfiguration of St. Apollinaris

in Classe.  & as we are three-in-one
in the mode of deification
we mirror that diamond Everyone
dwelling in the well of supernal Union

before, within, beyond Creation –
in the heart of the dream-songe
& the rêve-vision, we plunge
toward Restoration like a green acorn

                       *

& rise like ancient Osiris or Lone Ranger
through the climbing limbs
of an emerald Okean Stream
glowing more human (richer, stranger)

& more alive, as we lift toward that
light cross-tree of stars
where gentle Dante stares
& time & space availeth not

& where the marriage of true minds
is blessedness of spiritual grace
as we become one Falcon-
Ace, or Jeanne-eaglet – who finds

her microscopic lamb-lamp in the grass
just as Maggie spied Jesus
composting the flowers
there, in Resurrection Cemetery... Rise,

Sister-Dove!  Walk, Jonah-Lazarus!
& thus the reunion of the universe
is now our interstellar fire-house –
Maggie a tower of almonds (brown eyes

shaken up to smiling Milky Way
between Jerusalem & Athens)
& my dry diagram begins
to melt into a double Tiger-Lily –

like this one (Hobo showed me)
peeking from the shade-weeds
by the Mississippi – beads
of green, black, orange... a flag (you see?).

8.7.19

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