high above valley
above deep shade coloured with the calls of cuckoos,
the ring of coppersmith's hammer...
high in the hiss of the wind,
wind filled with spirits
and bright with the jangle of horse bells...
after a crisp night crammed with stars
it's morning.
Over the scratched-up soil, scorched-earth wasted,
long shadows lead women bearing water.
I watch the sway of skirts,
think of moist spice forests --
too many pictures
swirling
vertigo
momentum of civilization
threw me too far over this time-simple landscape
and i hang here
in this mountain light
a balloon blown full of darkness --
got to let this ballast go
got to float upward
till i burst
weavers' fingers flying on the loom
patterns shift too fast to be discerned
all these years of thinking
ended up like this
in front of all this beauty
understanding nothing.
rhododendrons in bloom, sharp against spring snow
remind me of another time
in japanese temple --
there was a single
orange blossom
at the wrong time of year --
seemed like a sign --
when i looked again
it was gone.
weavers' fingers flying on the loom
patterns shift too fast to be discerned
all these years of thinking
ended up like this
in front of all this beauty
understanding nothing.
(Toronto, October 26, 1987
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