CANTO 58 Too cold

 

Too cold for the tent.

March light—

The wind—windowed out.

The day wet. Sandhill cranes

circle the marsh, fly north

calling—I will breathe this light.

Thought holds the dark and the light hostage.

The snowdrop held in the snow.

Let rings of light form.

Riding hard on thought is doubt,

pain in back and legs.

Cancel, not censor, thought.

When attention opens to the light

the light rising opens.

All my head fills

with the light rising.

My lips part, the loop forms

from the O of my mouth

to the O of hands cupped in my lap.

Attention in the light

includes the cranes and the wind,

the widening. Pain becomes warmth.

The top of my head opens.

What is the sudden bright

tracing of filaments branching

red-orange like veins in the yolk

of the quick egg, blood lightning?

Later the amaryllis in the window,

petals with specks of sunlit ruby,

anthers with pollen ready for a touch.