|
| I don't know somehow it seems sufficient |
| to see and hear whatever coming and going is, |
| losing the self to the victory |
| of stones and trees, |
| of bending sandpit lakes, crescent |
| round groves of dwarf pine: |
| |
| for it is not so much to know the self |
| as to know it as it is known |
| by galaxy and cedar cone, |
| as if birth had never found it |
| and death could never end it: |
| |
| the swamp's slow water comes |
| down Gravelly Run fanning the long |
| stone-held algal |
| hair and narrowing roils between |
| the shoulders of the highway bridge: |
| |
| holly grows on the banks in the woods there, |
| and the cedars' gothic-clustered |
| spires could make |
| green religion in winter bones: |
| |
| so I look and reflect, but the air's glass |
| jail seals each thing in its entity: |
| |
| no use to make any philosophies here: |
| I see no |
| god in the holly, hear no song from |
| the snowbroken weeds: Hegel is not the winter |
| yellow in the pines: the sunlight has never |
| heard of trees: surrendered self among |
| unwelcoming forms: stranger, |
| hoist your burdens, get on down the road. |
