I remember the clouds parting ways
dissolving cloud from cloud, and the peninsular
light that fell like clear wine
into the elms that caught the light for us and strained it through
the spades of their leaves, dressing the light in crystals of lost
rain
I remember how the air seemed to siphon water
up from the land, as a tree draws water
up through the green tree-heart at its core
and into the flickering sieve of its crown
to feed the wide green tree-soul
And I recall how the light's quicksilver
hushed all sound in the pasture, bathing us from two sides
and would not let us go;
how the sky was sponged with grey and pearl
and how our skirts swept the grass, parting the grass gently
as a fluted hull parts waves
And our hems were dark, and our silk shoes,
and the wooden pattens we wore did no good, for a nectar of dew
had carried June's sweetness in from the land
and spread it over the grass
And under your silk hood, and on my skin
I could see and I could feel
the marks where the locket with Father's likeness had pressed
into my cheek and your breast
And as we crossed the high pasture with arms laced
Father's ships crossed the breadth of the Sound and the Bay
weaving the same crossing and uncrossing paths
as your stitching hand, and my little ciphering hand
And I could hear the sad, sweet creak and strain of
ship's timbers
that one day would carry you far away
leaving me to watch the vessel go
and ask the bare sand, Why should things be so?
while Father cried, Now I am poor
And lastly, I remember how
as the great ships drew apart into their own close hoods of silence
holding geometries of steady lights
that wheeled away like the star-beasts you showed me:
dragon, lion, ram, and bear —
“The light pours through us,” you said.
“We are our own
Governing stars,
And, by the source of this clear light,
What instruments we are!”
© 2013 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
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