Aug 292011

Winter's never here at the fountain
Whose waters' liveliness seems a warm 
And open candor. Things are but things and do as they must:
As in the fountain's pallorous spangling forever
Heaviness and  light contest.

Beyond the torus of its halo
The summery waters' motions endeavor,
With the tear-bright dignity of an eye in agony,
To show how lightly may a substance go
An afflatus of divinity.

All things to their opposite use
Tortured, as when this lithesome watercourse
Was narrowed from easy murmur into gladdened sound,
Reveal some laden tale of their earthly course
Returning to their source.

As when like tears to ground we streak  
And the opened waters that accompany burial
Flow in broken speech, so the startled water, at its arc
Interpenetrate of scattered light, torridly tumbles
All rainbows to one stone bowl.

Something had sung up 
From the dark watered words summoned to console
Bodied brightness; as when we ourselves, by a terrible pity pul-
Led vocal from the womb, tighten and squall 
To give creation's own 

Cry to the beautiful.

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