Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up,
Reflecting daylight, making sound
In its stepped fall from cup to cup
Of tumbled rocks, singing its round
From cloud to sea to cloud, I climb
The deer road through the leafless trees
Under a wind that batters limb
On limb, still roaring as it has
Two nights and days, cold in slow spring.
But ancient song in a wild throat
Recalls itself and starts to sing
In storm-cleared light; and the bloodroot,
Twinleaf, and rue anemone
Among bare shadows rise, keep faith
With what they have been and will be
Again: frail stem and leaf, mere breath
Of white and starry bloom, each form
Recalling itself to its place
And time.  Give thands, for no windstorm
Or human wrong has altered this,
The forfiet Garden that recalls
Itself here, where both we and it
Belong; no act or thought rebels
In this brief  Sabbath now, time fit
To be eternal. Such a bliss
Of bloom’s no ornament, but root
And light, a saving loveliness,
Starred firmament here underfoot.
~ Wendell Berry