Pleroma

In this land of sacraments
"things” point beyond thingness
toward some effable beauty
deeper inside them than they are.
Your garden is full of doorways,
where colors and shapes are only
keys, green, brown, scarlet,
and a hummingbird’s persistent tick
scolding you to attention,
the perishing golden catastrophe
of a late August dahlia
mean something that cannot
be found in books.
Children remain here, playing,
but grown-ups pass through
into wilder more silent worlds.
But perhaps it is the other way round.
Children cross over and return
like ravens, like wisps of milkweed,
like mountains in mist
while the old ones remain,
pretending to know.
All I can tell you is this:
Your soil is silence.
Your root is breath.
Your blossom is wonder.
And when you burst open
you release
the fragrance of love.