Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine (poem)
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine
Is the soul solid like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a departed river,
or silk soothing the thighs
of an ancient dancer before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s return . . . .
Or is it timorous and shy,
the notorious violet withdrawn
or the hidden mountain columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with its sheen,
or does it come creeping out at candlelight
furtively searching for the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.
Dorothy Walters
January 8, 2007
San Francisco
Is the soul solid like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a departed river,
or silk soothing the thighs
of an ancient dancer before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s return . . . .
Or is it timorous and shy,
the notorious violet withdrawn
or the hidden mountain columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with its sheen,
or does it come creeping out at candlelight
furtively searching for the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.
Dorothy Walters
January 8, 2007
San Francisco
