Vespers

I used to imagine

that I was mist,

but I am the sun.

I have become the space

where minds wander,

a stillness not imposed by thought.

Because I am neither

"for" nor "against"

I have outraged everyone

but God.

She and I sit quietly

by the stream

eating whatever berries

are in season.

It's a stream we all know,

some of us carried

along by the current,

some of us just watching.

Please don't call me

irresponsible.

I respond to mothwing,

pang of raindrop,

thistle-touch of purple evening,

cry of mother raven

just dissolved

in whispering pines.

What breathes me turns

the magical wheel

of Winter stars.

If you want an answer, friend,

just rest more passionately

in the silence where

there is no question.

Then learn to take a walk.

Learn to listen

to stammering seeds

in the darkening meadow

of this moment.

'Evening at Kuerner's' by Andrew Wyeth, a farm a few miles from where I grew up.