Vespers

Who wouldn't wish to become
The fiery life of divine substance
                                                 blazing above the fields,
Shining above the waters,
The rain like dust through his fingerbones,
All our yearning like flames in his feathery footprints?
Who, indeed?
                          And still . . .

The world in its rags and ghostly raiment calls to us
With grinding and green gristle
Wherever we turn,
                     and we are its grist, and we are its groan.
Over the burned lightning strikes of tree shadows
                                               branded across the near meadow,
Over the dusk-dazed heads of the oat grass,
The bullbat's chortle positions us, and hold us firm.
We are the children of the underlife,
                                                       at least for a time,
Flannel shirt on a peg, curled
Postcards from years past
                                        thumbtacked along the window frames.
Outside, deer pause on the just-cut grass,
The generator echoes our spirit's humdrum,
                                             and gnats drone high soprano . . .
Not much of a life, but I'll take it.

Copyright © 2005 Charles Wright All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission