Pleroma

 

In this land of sacraments
things point
beyond thingness
toward some ineffable beauty
deeper inside them
than they are.
Your garden is full of doorways.
Colors augur more than
umber, green, carnelian.
Each form a portal 
to the formless.
A moment ago in the sweet 
sad seeming of April,
this fat plum was a tiny 
white blossom.
Now a 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
but grown-ups pass through
into quieter worlds.
Perhaps, after all, it is 
the other way round.
Children cross over and return
like ravens, mushrooms,
mountains in mist
while the old ones remain,
pretending to know.
All I can tell you is:
Your soil is silence.
Your root is breath.
Your blossom is wonder.
When everything bursts open
you release the fragrance
of love.

Painting by Étienne Colaud, d.1540