Let us not speak here by water,
here where the pooling bronzes
possible words into silent castings.
No, we should stand in late morning
and become as subtle as this light
that falls and hangs and floats godly,
here beside black trunks turning time...
here where grass drowses in moods...
here where bushes whisper in glints.
Metaphysics is implicit in the sense of this setting --
in the blooming of yellow, in the volume with shadows.
Literature could drift through, let's reach out to grasp it
and quill with feathered textures our verses after parting.
Old Romance hangs here like a canvas of touches,
but touches of souls that go deeper than the flesh.
Who needs heaven when a garden opens,
opening a vision of such water-laden light?
Who needs heaven if spirits are breathing
suspense and an unseen miracle of smiles?
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck