Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up

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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

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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

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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,

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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

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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,

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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

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To be eternal. Such a bliss

Of bloom’s no ornament, but root

And light, a saving loveliness,

Starred firmament here underfoot.

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~ Wendell Berry

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