Just So

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.