Good Morning

The morning is sweet

With the bird’s high ether,

Trill, and as full

As their abandon.

The air is warm and fragrant,

Infiltrated with wood smoke

And the earth’s low savour.

In a faraway glance,

The distance fades in to mist.

The morning in the breath is sweet.

Tell Me There Is No God

Tell me there is no God

And I shall die in my garden

Breathing the wonder,

My brain obliterated

By the green spring

And the blackbird

Fluorescing

Music and magnitude

And wielding the shrill knife

Of beauty’s grievous wound,

And I will say nothing,

But put the pen

On the paper

And write my pitiful, joyous attempt

At the writing of it,

And die in my tears

And laugh in my tears,

And cry for the love

That kills me

As I feel

Its world-ending enormity.

Being

Moving in the garden

My body is free

As new expectant air,

Mellow in the coming.

The push of bulbs

Rises through my limbs,

The sap called by the source

To come and become.

Is there better than being,

Just being?

The gnats know,

Ascribing their wisdom

In choreography

Written on the breeze

Where the afternoon is nothing

But a pale yellow light.