Before my mind has considered where we are going,
Oblique November sunrays slicing sideways
Through the red and yellow leaves remaining,
As if the stained glass windows in the cathedral
Of the morning have been half removed,
In need of restoring,
And light is pouring in, unmoored.
All else is silhouette, hushed as if waiting
For the Host. Meanwhile my feet have veered
From concrete onto dirt, following the road
At a remove I feel more connected to.
The paths my ancestors wore that became roads
Still exist-- and not just human. I become
Each animal of prey, hugging its body close to the earth,
Escaping through quick subterfuge.
The trees have filtered this strange light
Through their thousand ungloved fingers
Since long before human eye or art
Imposed on them such leaden images.
We are going the way that all mortal things must go--
Haunted to the grave by the eternity in our bones.
Haunted to the grave by the eternity in our bones.
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