After the Vision of Her Face
I knew nothing, not the slow-motion billow
Of cumulo-nimbus overhead, nor the infinite depth
Of pale blue sky, not even the annoyance
Of black flies. I knew nothing except fatigue –
A joyous blur that fogged every word
I hoped to speak or would again read
Or wrap into the semblance of a thought.
Yet, every muscle in my body, startled
Alive, seemed vigilant to the May afternoon,
As though the beatific could be found
Lounging on a hay bale in the cow barn
Or glimpsed in the eye of a Holstein
The moment the sun reflects in it,
As though day was itself a catechism.
Does time sanctify space with hymns
To the tiny wonders of this world?
In the air, what floats is chanted;
What is glorious walks alone, patient.