Quietude 3

Seasons arrive when poems may burrow below line

of sound or sight like a shy boy beneath the bed;

a space where language hides under thickets

of birch branches to escape the frightful dream;

lies mute and mud soaked in tangled alder twigs

for months on end. All winter embedded in quiet

until the slow uncurling into light transformed

as mushrooms from buried spores in fragrant soil

magically emerge, as birdsong dances hungry throngs

of newborn beaks.

Or as a child begins that clumsy climb towards the larger

world and his unseen place within its evolving spiral.

Now after such lengthy stillness, image, rhythm, word and

vision stretch encrusted habits, their stiff well-rested limbs,

and breathing brisk air, unfurl riches bursting loudly

into morning’s open mouth;

again, their unseen source replenished, embodied awake

to what is growing ever new from that silent past, in fullness

standing strengthened and restored.  

And like a temple bell at dawn, poets’ throats and hearts vibrate

ancient song across the forest, throughout the pulsing city:

outpouring gifts of rain and sun and phrase to kiss the flesh

of quietude, to praise with sound the living thirsting earth.