By Marian Aitches
Oh, you know how wrong
they were, the philosophers
It is the edge of the morning when
if you go out,
you feel you are interrupting
a sacred act,
one of the days before humans bloomed
in a perfect garden.
Why you push open the cabin door,
see light rush among live oaks,
a herd of green horses
stamping their hooves in the spirit world.
The field beyond is pulsing
with something more than words,
alone in its rock-strewn beauty
except for one old maple
stirring in the wind across early sky
like a yellow river fluent
over burnt gold stones -
inhabits the world
the way you long to.