94

For Human Holding

The oak leaf stretches too strong

for human holding, the blue

morning sky too dense

for filtering sorrow or fathoming song.

Is it man that turns askew

or nature’s innocence?

As, frantic for change, we whirl the sun

through the seasonal chart,

faceless for fear

the worm of our dying blood bores on

devouring the heart,

the four-chambered year.

Did we choose the scarlet-tortued sky

at midday? Or crimson leaves

out of time in spring?

Knowingly exchange the apathy

of sap for blood that unweaves

time’s fictioning?

Or was it nature’s most secret thrust,

this cleavage from firm leaf,

finite sky and soil—the long

agony probing worm-shot dust,

the rising, unearthly grief,

the inchoate song?