(for my dear friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks, a poet of mind-boggling talent,
for whom this poem has been promised for far too long, though not so
long perhaps as the lives of poems go...they are ancient things, even
the young ones, and as Memory is my negative Muse, I can not recall
exactly where or when this piece began, except that I know it began
in one of the many enriching conversations I have had with this man.)
The Night Heron
the night heron stands
silent as the sea
refuses the sun.
shorebirds' shadows fall
on deafness like lids.
the sun speaks and you
see the stars. the wind
tells your stories in
voices of the night.
you hear. you listen.
you find your roots in
the reaching branches
beneath still waters.
broken reeds whistle
a hollow tune in
the wind and chatter
like bones in the breeze.
a clap, and you fly,
pulling long legs from
the water dripping
behind you, lighter
than any great blue,
heavier than light.
we search the sky for
fish while our branches
blow in air. we stand
knee-deep in wetness
while all the life, all
the time, is right here.
this song sings itself
in the sun. undone things
thunder as one while
the elders look on
mutely and mourn the
lost morning of man.
this work will never
be done. this song can
never be un-sung.
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