by Richard Robbins
The story of you came out of the lake to find the tree covered with initials.
What does the spirit know, really, following its little song westward to the
receding edge of glacier.
What could the eye follow into the folding stone, the thread of light
lingering in mica, fire at the cool center of basalt.
The woman became water again when the car and the house and the dog
roaming in the yard all turned to her at the same time in order to
grow larger than themselves.
We wanted this all along. We wanted the phone ringing outside of
history. The wind of our dance along the cliff edge where the old
prophet stopped his singing.
Say something, we said. Tell us the country your tongue came from, and
its manner of forests. Tell us the name of wind behind your eyes.
Tell us what new star has named your fingertips already, what
river they follow back to the billion-year-old heart.
Published on April 21, 2015