“March… Someone has walked across the snow,
Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less.
It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.
It is a busy cry, concerning someone else.
And though one says that one is part of everything,
And being part is an exertion that declines:
One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.
Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry.
It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves,
Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing
Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all.
On my way home, I see a small stream rushing along under ice. Maybe the nature of a particular can be understood only in relation to sound inside the sense it quickens. Setting sun. A mourning dove compounds invisible declensions.
“Deep dove, placate you in your hiddenness.”