Who incised this river here by writing hard Forgot to leave with wetted alphabet The charm of a cipher. The river rambles on, Until caught up by the roots that shade 5 My going on in woods, although my coming here Where river spells and spills into hard wood Was open plain enough. And that's another kind Of hard-to-see from too much looking: Field and sky- at night, earth-dark and stars- 10 Flat each to each like paired mirrors with Nothing caught between. So I'd crawled here Morning long, the weather hugger-mugger nothing And the fields off-rotation for bearing crops, And, so, lively with wildflower wilderness' 15 Play-day maybe and beginning mischief Of sorting out itself without the help of hands. I thought, once, coming this way years back On a similar sort of errandless errand, I had caught, once, some evidence of pride 20 Running through the wild wood gone half-back From cultivation to dark unplowed bewilderment. I saw a line as straight as a forearm Run a hundred yards between two equal Tangles of trees- fair straight- the way 25 A stick will write out a line and raise a rim In level leaf-mold chewed even by the time. All this before a hidden storm the weather folk Had laid odds against, and, so, I had dismissed. And then a thinnest silver filter fell 30 And brought already damp woods as wet.... And I stood in the turn of atmosphere As sunset brought a gold to all the air, Infecting silver with light's last despair, The way a fever brightens sickness to a shine 35 In eyes and cheeks, and brows grow dewed With inner causes. I stood thus and wiped my face, Interested to see such simple changefulness, And not knowing why I displayed such interest, Nor indeed why I had such interest to gift 40 To new wilderness come up since man had left. But, slowly, as winter eaves will gather ice, This line fallen before my feet, uncrossed, Became a trough for an element not itself, And rose cupping changeful water until dark, 45 And past dark, myself become as sodden As my coat, my hands gone home to pockets Like squirrels asleep in leaves,- until overfull Of rain and moonlight. The line laid out A silver bar, shining from end to end 50 Like some fresh first cuneiform stroke in clay; You know how clarity can come on after storm, No matter how minor the stirrings warned. But I wondered, as I would. I wondered anyway. What had taught the line to be, when clouds 55 Cleared away to re-present the moon to me? What straightness lay here inherited? Nothing came to drink of what had swollen, A revelation strange as rain that'd left it To puzzle one who seeks for things in things 60 And wants to know just what to tell himself, Forgetting weather's made by being out in rain.
From the collection "The Timid Leaper"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.