It wasn’t the first
time I’d woken to bright sun
on fresh snow. Each time
it causes a panic,
a sudden loss of sense of
place. For a second,
only the firstness,
the sheer fact that being is
what matters at all.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 17.12.20
It wasn’t the first
time I’d woken to bright sun
on fresh snow. Each time
it causes a panic,
a sudden loss of sense of
place. For a second,
only the firstness,
the sheer fact that being is
what matters at all.
Understated and full of finesse, this reflection moves teh reader from what seems like almost trivial anecdote to the mystery it embodies and expresses. The reader is allowed to dwell in a fruitful openness to love’s otherness as she is moved by the poem’s prcise an d tender rendering of reality in its depth as gift. The poem is very far from sentimental and yet–or because of this–conveys profound feeling and confers deep comfort.
LikeLike