Tuesday, March 6, 2012

March Morning

I go out under the cold wind
            looking for the inside of things:

opaline eggs of cumulus
            gray parabolic bellies
                        pregnant with snow;

wildflowers pushing through
            last night's storm crust.

The way sunlight
            lays its fingers
                        along the southward arc

of bare oak branches
            I know
                        it is feeling for a pulse
                        or searching for a hidden latch.

Snow falls in distant columns
            looking more like big,
                        unseasonable smokes
                        rising from river canyon and ridge.

The Sierra crest is curtained
            in mystery
                        like the Tabernacle.

West- and southward
            a jigsaw of cloud-shadowed hills
                        and sun-flooded meadows
                        indigo and emerald.

My pace is slow,
                        I probe everything
                        near and distant:

a horizontal column
            of pineapple smell,  blowing
                        off sun-warmed pine bark;

the tiny chalky cups
            of new moss,  brimming
                        on vermillion clay.

Below, to the west
            the long, undulant torso
                        of ridge

clothed in golden green
            tufts of new oaks leaves
                        annointed in momentary sun

            the golden
                        reclining Buddha

his tranquil breath
            whispering the pines
                        a sweet mantrum.

I find
            as with all other Springs
                        that the inside is inviolable

            its sacred fires
                        from mortal probing.

The deep sacraments
            elude me,
                        yet, year after year

I walk            
            this pilgrim's road
                        alert and hopeful.

I know
            there are Sufi saints

in the marrow cells
            of the bones
                        of the world.

I know
            the clouds  give birth
                        to golden sparks,

the air
            is raining
                        white light,

yet bend my knee
            to lesser revelations:
                        lavender quail droppings
                        on white snow;

the song of the rivulet
            in the rut
                        of the road.


1 comment:

gaelee said...

Todays storm has blown in spirit, the divine muse on sharp winds. I feel it seeping in my bones. I breathe in this splender, this awakening. Like the "green fuse" that is setting fire to the swelling buds, once hidden in darkened chambers. I breathe out love and joy for this amazing world. Thank you, Suzan, for making it more amazing and beautiful. ox gaelee