56
|
In
Praise of All Small Vessels Almost I know you now, like some small bird
whistling alone in the cold heart, can all but believe the
invisible white sun will exchange winter-chill
abeyance for spring snows of
dogwood, though the word-driving
wind, God’s alien spirit, pluck at your red
feathers and blow my warm blood
cold with the alien cold blowing your voice along
my veins. Almost I know you now…. What then that you hear
echo in that little room my doom-drum omen of
your breaking year? All angels in their
coming sound as terrible. Habit lets you hear my
thought, lets pipe your one-note
tune. As always. In atavistic recurrence of image (my reiterated spring
your deadened winter) only habit housed you,
wove you nest cupped there like some
archetype, worn into place despite
my knowledge that you must repeal all
song, come spring. Should I regret? I do not regret one
syllable. But what if all the birds
of homelessness, following your flight,
crowded my narrow doors against
the beating wind? I too fear the wind. It speaks, and I am
still small. I fear more, though, the
horrible wings of winter birds beating, beating at my sprung-door heart. And in that fear, white
vision like apocalypse opens on a white-driven
world
there drop dead
cardinals, one by one, sprinkling the dead snow
to horror: red barren drops pricked from the
bleeding god. I will not deny your
name. Almost I write it here
as testament, daring those unvoiced,
terrible wings to don your habit, rash as dogwood spring. |
