Every time I touch that passage, I have to read it again,
and every time the wind blows by it investigates
that one deep crevice in the face of the high cliff.
When I see those blooms, I must inhale,
when I count the petals I must forget,
when I stir the waters they must rise
and ask me in a burbling tongue who I am.
If I reach that valley, I must run into it
and make some noise; if I hold back, what am I?
If once I hear the rustle like pages
of you, I am compelled to
I will never know, but I must, I must, I must.
When you drink warm milk with a golden strand of clover honey
swirled into it, spiraled, doesn't it slip down your throat
and land in the endless red field?
Like someone who does not care and does not appreciate, I have completely neglected this blog lately. And I regret that, because not only do I care and appreciate it, but it inspires me, and the lack of Daniel poetry in my brain probably has something to do with my extended writer's block. How horrible is that??? I've had solutions at my fingertips for weeks and not taken full advantage of them. Shameful.
ReplyDeleteWhen I read this, I see paradise. A warm, beautiful landscape filled with green and sunshine and bursting with the kind of life that does not interrupt solitude.
When I read this, I think of something so evocative, so beautiful, so insescapably true that you can never get enough of it. Something that drives you and touches you and gives life to your soul. The first line makes me think it's a Bible passage.
It's something so pure and so good you feel like you can't ever fully express it's wonderfulness.
As always, beautiful.
-Jo