Just
So
Of course I knew those leaves were birds.
Christian
Wiman
From a Window
Eighteen above. The
frost
has paused on the blond
dropped curlings of the fallen
maple leaves. Tell
me,
please, does this thin
edge, that glistens when
the sun is unsuddenly
above the mountain, lift
its chin in longing, a longing
only a whole night of
the descension into a dark
that settles on the ground
like a sentinel, tailored
from the remains of
the afternoon rain,
or some intuited resolve,
each drop of water,
whatever her size, becomes
a humble letter in an alphabet
we see only
as brief pliable diamonds
and sundry prisms
able to rise the way spirit
levels rise when
the light and hand and eye
caresses them, bone-glow
to balance, prop, stabilize,
a breath of it inside of us
remaining, that sentinel,
just so.