Saturday, August 12, 2006
Even in summer there is something of autumn about you,
The wet having sunk deep in to bring out a darker green, a thing of north.
And Mount Hood peering out over clouds
I saw on my descent.
It sprang up in me as we finally left Portland,
that tattooed town, drunk on its own sophistication,
it was an hour's drive, maybe two--
and I breathed again, suddenly overtaken with shade, and bark, and layered greens.
And that’s when you feel the mystery of Place,
when your surroundings are so absurd in their beauty, so improbable
that your mind is raped of tedious things.
You are Adam again, fresh with his first tree.
So sad to be inside yourself all day--
your body, that brittle house of thinking
finally let out of it’s element—like a nursing home patient, squinting,
taking careful little steps out into the open-- the Sun
is a sore light clinging and filtered through every veined leaf,
millions upon millions above, countless and stamped, dead and brown below.
And I walk through it all-- stomping and tripping---
two legs pulling along the image of God.