in late morning when pale light falls,
when the ocher grass almost glows,
consecrating the relics of branches.
You stand in stillness, no god bothers
such a pooling of gentle confusions.
No one could paint this ambiance.
Not even Corot. And no Impressionist
could divide these beams of grace
into a deft rendering of how it seems.
It is a waking dream, and we plunge
on such occasions into alien depths.
I said no god bothers such confusions.
But what do I know? A piece of some god
might be extruded into this trembling light,
some old thought of Pan or resting faun
might have collapsed this wave-function
onto natural objects and into sentient eyes.
Yes, what do I know of the uncanny womb
from which pregnant gleams are sourced
that rapt the mind with birthing vision?
Gardens of careful flowers are temples
built to tempt the reticent luminosities,
to ground hopes for untamed moments.
But artifice will never hold the infinite.
Only a forgotten iris's petaled rim
might receive the tragic glowing boon,
might bring that radiance from inside
to meet the angled sun in secret ritual
of substance and light becoming one.
Oh...such instances are surely divine!
The untold story of one's end is heard,
and death would be a transient shadow.
Into that light! Into that confirmation
near a forest or on a meadow's edge.
It is an accident, that late morning luster.
It is like a wish you never thought to make.
And you are then with her in quiet infinity.
Copyright 2010, Tim Buck
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