Anvil of Light
In a forgotten valley studded with runic oaks,
at mid-August, on an anvil of light
my breath and two swallows rise and fall.
Nearing to the remembered place,
a wail of distant insects
riffles the distance like notes in a weird scale.
Solitude comes to an intersection
And a figure-eight of melody
startles up out of the grass.
Involuntary, this godward thing called praise.
It lights on a weed tip
and its wings radiate out.
The wind’s tides roll through dry weeds, on and on,
a Greek chorus of Why, Why, Why.
A mockingbird's tail flicks.
The silent ring of the lupine bells.
Still, I don’t know where I am
until I watch a pencil-tick
crawl up a poppy's thigh
and black-spotted wings sprout
from my back. I flap away
to a dry height from which I can see
the question’s shape. Here
is really nowhere. Are you nowhere too?
How can anyone ever trap matter in words?
Or ever make ideas as apple-fine as this air?