Reading The World of the Ten Thousand Things on the lawn

while trying not to ignore trees, shot through with hot white light

 

of a summer sun descending. Between me and the trees, sky,

the hushed blue of a silk scarf edged with the kind of clouds

 

angels must enjoy playing with on their off days. Too much beauty

makes me anxious. It is a terrible thing to be a fallen creature. Missing

 

that glimpse of sprightly jay in the birch, that violet curve of mountain

rounding this West Virginia bend, feels like losing sight of grace,

 

again. I am always a child in summer, attuned to desire

for something bigger than myself: the dew’s sweet secret, strung along

 

feathered hands of ferns in the meadow come morning. My mother’s voice

humming over small tasks involving cinnamon and soap. Is it too much to ask

 

of God to bless me also, a heart imperfect to perfection, and I having

no birthright to sell, here at the Farmer’s Market with its blueberry venders

 

and sweet corn experts. The nights grow thick, and instead of turning away

I slip into them, like a deer following its heart to clover

 

and moonlight. These days I understand little but feel more, a toy piano

where my head used to be, playing songs of daring, dusty adventure, not

 

the usual strawberry ditties of my kitchen dishwashing voice. Worry

makes the shape of God more abrupt in the mind. I plant zinnias

 

and try not to wonder about their health. I diligently read a nun’s thoughts

on prayer, underlining my filth crackles as He seizes hold of me.

 

Sometimes, longing is the only thing that saves us. Today I will finish

planting my vegetable garden, and listen to the peepers sing through the heat, of rain.

 

 

The evening’s bewitching beauty, like bee-balm holding vigil over the body

of a crushed finch, stalked my depression. I’d come to the lake with a bucket

of dying fish, hoping to right my wrongs. By the plum light of a fading day we made a pact:

no more guilt over beauty, accidental or cultivated; yellow tea roses in a garden

exclusive to wild sunflowers. All those practical seeds come September,

and only a handful of startled, migrating finches to eat them. The fish lay still

in a field of waist-high goldenrod, then swam away, grateful.

I had nothing to remember them by.  It seemed to be night, the sky enamored of itself,

all pink and hopeful, and I said to no one in particular, “to sit in a cloud is to believe

in falling.” Sometimes the shape of something is less real than our desire

to make it so: sudden hill, dollhouse at sunset, the husks of us, some stars.

 

 

 

 

In a word: Yes.  Of course this is only the beginnings of remedy. We are almost to Ohio,

on our way to see the man with healing hands. I know I’m in for pain.

It has been too long and the ache has taken over my body. Yet there are hills

to exclaim over: three horses high up, one the color of bleached bones in the desert

flanked by chestnuts. We are on this side of the gate and almost there. I inhale goats

and gardens ploughed under. No, I do not need to use the outhouse this time, dear.

 

You know the routine by now. Awkwardness and herbs in a musky basement.

I try not to cry out, even though you are outside, making friends with the buggy horses.

I try not to cry out, though the pain is savage, and leaves the healer’s arm limp and stinging.

 

You said: Do I go out and buy a cow just because I crave milk? And I asked for a brown goat.

Goldenrod along the path all September and milkweed shot up and shining

like the wise hair of good ancestors. I want to savor all these words, just in case.

We never really know about the wilderness until we’re in it.

 

Going home we took a different road and came upon a new high hill,

this one with a triptych of crosses: at center one the color of bleached bones in the desert,

the others of shining yellow wood like the hard, straight pews of my girlhood.

I held your hand and hoped for a sign.