Monday, July 30, 2012

3808.SINGING A SPIRITUAL MUSIC

SINGING A 
SPIRITUAL MUSIC
Oh made of steel, oh you are not.
The cauldron at the entrance burns,
and your fury knows no ending  -  I would
never stay to watch. There are chickens
here, scratching at the ground. I sit back
just to see them go. On the wooden
post hangs a sign announcing 'eggs for
sale'. It's all silly and simple, but it
works; people do stop.
-
By the drawbridge, a few carousers
take their stands  -  a lady on a bicycle
stops, a man preens his crummy-looking
dog. Not far off, the river that leads to
Pennsylvania runs its steady way along
the border. Logs and wood float by.
-
I'm steady, and pretty sure of what I know.
I deem appropriate only the things that I
feel matter : the red rope entwined at the
door of the barn; that thirty-year old car,
still left here in the weeds; the hayrick,
now old and sagging on bad springs.
-
Down below all this, in the center
of the world, I know another voice
is singing. It is one I cannot always
hear, but when I do I understand
and heed, and listen for more.
My spirit is a pliant thing.

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