The sky might go on opening
forever, up and up, blue shining
into white light, Heaven itself
open and sitting on blue sky,
God's throne in the center of the sun,
and we beneath run, scattering, like ants,
grasping our crumbs in mindless
jaws. We walk about with grief.
What little sorrows do we carry,
wearing them smooth like pebbles
in our palms, worrying over them
again and again. We turn around
our griefs until our hearts
knot up like little lumps, nuts that
are hard to crack, until they crack
and show how soft they are, how damp
and black with rot.
What heavy little stones, what sins
beneath such ceaseless sky.
What seems like blue and ceaseless sky
is such a little layer, on a globe,
a nut, of such a smallness, in a vast
space, flung out, freckled
with worlds--
And all this, curled
in love's palm, stirred
by love's breath, tended
until its epochs all are ended,
every soul ingathered, every thread
of fungus inspooled, every bond
dissolved and recombined, every turn
turned in at last:
what we wanted, what we worked for, what we earned
what we built, what we lost, and what we burned
these years beneath this little sky--
infolded now by boundless, bluest
Love
