Lurking in the Garden

There are great holes of darkness

lurking in the garden among the early crocus

and overshaftd by the golden sun—

great holes without a star,

spiraling into black nothingness,

furtive, hiding behind a golden glow like spring.

Without blinking, I watch the luminous crocus—

three blooms like haloes cradled in green wings,

and underneath, the mysterious dark feet

that bathe in that Other light—

folding, molding, told

in a terrible pause between nothingness

and All

where man stands rent, holding

these sundered impossibilities

toward one unsundered view.

How can we name, to embrace them too,

Nothing, and Never, and Not

and still believe the spring crocus?