Once lost, the laws might be derived again
When necessary, or so you’ve been told.
You’re half asleep in January sun.
Just out of sight, someone starts bugging you
And Steller’s jays. Green hills, blue weather, — noon
To bring out Panpipes, but it’s too damn cold.
Profligate sunlight’s more or less a waste,
Though soil is warming, and ten thousand bulbs
Set out last fall are stirring underground,
Sleepers awakening, — as walnut trees,
The English kind, lining a country lane,
Portend, perhaps, a thousand years of peace.
During which age we might ascend the range
Just east of here, where snow is often found
Among the early petals, and the wind
Is no stranger to loneliness. This time
You talk about, where does one find the time
To make good use of it? I’ve read the book
That guides you through the trails nearby, amazed
At “accidental” birds, species of grace
In that cathedral forest, where your “look”
Is all the rage. Guides in the scattered hills
Are quoting you, disparaging the tunes
That brought us, after hardship, to this pass.
Just as today’s cloud cover is thrown off
By Zeus, or whoever, the early smells
Signal a fecund spring. — It’s not enough
To quite undo a winter’s damage. — Still,
You look up (after first chanting the runes
You’ll leave last winter’s children), as the sun,
Puffed up with pride, all godlike, starts to sink
Toward the west. Atop a Douglas fir,
Two mountain bluebirds preen after a bath.
One wants that image, to capture it, like
A line of Horace. — A whole season’s worth
Of drawing your despair back from the brink
Of heaven, tries, vainly, to bring you back
With half-measures, half-truths. — The simple laws
Are best, but aren’t available. Please take
A number. Let the world be made of these.
Let’s see what kind of world comes out in time.
It’s like walking, the sun burning your nose,
When, utterly surprised, you find you’re home.
For Charles Entrekin
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