Monday, March 19, 2012

Lenten Sonnet #27


In the upstairs window, all is green.
Now the pecan tree wears the palest mist
Against the laurel’s dark all-season sheen,
A weather of buds, each like an infant fist
Repeated infinitely, or so it looks
From this desk where, cheek nested in your hand,
You look up from the winter of your books
As if some voice had named you just now and
Set you among the almost-flowering things
Which form your view of a veiled and greening sky --
No page but leaves, those infinite unfurlings.
No life but that green rising from the dead.
No story but the most familiar mystery,
Everywhere, in the wet vein of the wood.