Act
A creator works according to a design.
Closing the gap between what what is and what is to be,
matter must be fashioned to fit the spiritīs image.
So boulders are moved, a stream deepened,
the marsh drained and cleared of tangled stems.
Look now across this bowl of land
at the edge of a lake
to where a farmhouse sits on a rise
with a line of birch trees beyond.
Look at this grass, darkest in the hollow.
Grass, so dense, so thick and spongy
it doesnīt seem real,
seems to preclude the possibility of roots,
an underworld of dark mud and dampness
and genesis in the bottomless brown of bog water.
Grass that belongs to limpid air
and yellow light and the memory of rain.
Grass that speaks only of coverings,
and those man-made. Grass that speaks
only of surfaces, and those unreal.
Mike
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