In depth of darkwoods, the sudden slant of
April’s empty light.
Near hard noon meridian
over softness of moss—viridian
underfoot—I stop,
wanting some stillness
and stand
beside a massive quartzite boulder
left here a long time,
almost motionless, glacial
erratic ( but only to limited perceptions.)
I’m not sure
what I can bring
to all this:
Yes, the gift of respiration;
The manifold graces
of being present—
These thoughts cross
inner oceans and
eons in an instant
and at once I find
that I want
to be one who
will stand at the marge of
this season with prayers and passion
seeking the true glide
of wisdom, imagination;
will watch open-hearted for
the fields’ first greening,
the hazing-over of
the hot, coppered sun,
and on the horizon
distant, small, strong,
the broadwings’ lifting arrival.
-Kevin Macneil Brown
