A moment ago in the sweet sad seeming of April, this fat plum was a tiny white un-bud. Now the hummingbird’s persistent tick scolds you to attention. The perishing golden catastrophe of a late August dahlia means something that you cannot look up in a book. Children play on earth while grown-ups gaze through thingness into quieter worlds. But perhaps it's the other way round. Children cross over and return like ravens, mushrooms, mountains in mist, while the old ones remain here , too gray to remember that this is a land of sacraments, things pointing beyond themselves , toward some ineffable beauty deeper inside them than they are. The bones of heaven are the bones of earth, and you are a garden of doorways. Colors augur more than umber, green, carnelian. Bodies are portals to the formless. All I can tell you is, your soil is silence, your root is breath, your blossom is wonder. Death will ravish and ...
