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.

Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Living

The fire in leaf and grass

so green it seems

each summer the last summer.


The wind blowing, the leaves

shivering in the sun,

each day the last day.

 

A red salamander 

so cold and so

easy to catch, dreamily

 

moves his delicate feet 

and long tail. I hold

my hand open for him to go.

 

Each minute the last minute. 


--Denise Levertov

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