Of All Things You

It is true that trees

can strike in me a flash

of wonder, thin the plane

between other worlds,

awaken what is ripe

to yearn in me to yearn.


A course of clouds can crowd

the sky unearthing deep

deposits of iron awe,

raw in the hidden depths

of my every day world

that turns and make it turn.


The stream that sings along

its winding way beneath

the moss-dressed log and through

the alder grove can crack

the thick of creeping freeze

keeping my soul in keep.


But even these pale beside

(after long your absence)

that moment I first hear—

 like swift-pierce lightning spears

slicing through my senses—

to hear that you are here.