The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon

    Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
    Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
    But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
    but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
    The summer mornings begin inch by inch
    while we sleep, and walk with us later
    as long-legged beauty through
    the dirty streets. It is no surprise
    that danger and suffering surround us.
    What astonishes is the singing.
    We know the horses are there in the dark
    meadow because we can smell them,
    can hear them breathing.
    Our spirit persists like a man struggling
    through the frozen valley
    who suddenly smells flowers
    and realizes the snow is melting
    out of sight on top of the mountain,
    knows that spring has begun.

    Jack Gilbert
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