Through a Glass, Darkly

Morning on Panther Mountain

The leaves are twitching, tree by tree
Like little horses, to be free
From bond of twig and chain of limb;
They, in their bondage, sing of Him.

He sends the breeze to stir their soul
And in one voice the leaves extol …
Extol … I ask, what do they sing?
This foreign voice, this fallen tongue,
What exaltations have been wrung
From every single, silenced string?

That nature sings His praise, I know
‘Tis true. But Adam’s crushing blow,
Like Babel’s fall, has made us all –
The leaves, the beasts, and Whitman’s grass
Like strangers. We’re reduced to pass
Each other, hearing no one’s call.

And yet my heart is stirred as well,
And yearning toward the leaves, their spell
Both saddens and enlivens me.
That God is speaking with his trees,
And they with Him, I know. My heart
Is broken so, and can’t take part.


Ridgehaven, June 10, 2009

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