Life:
lifting the inanimate
into the realm
of growing, being, doing–
the brightest of all elements,
and
when rain clouds
dim and darken
the time and space
where hearing ear
perks up to hearken,
and pleading heart
beats,
wrings its hands,
to find out
how in this
round, blue world
of many lands,
from this drear storm,
the snuffed-out light
can manage to re-sparken,
and such harsh rain, and chilling snow
rush down and through
and, on all,
do take their toll,
but, too,
can lead the body whole
to take the dare
to find and ride
a second wind out there,
just when its style seems
hopeless stalled,
due to some cruel cramp in it.
And the brilliance
now unseen,
sure as unlikely
and far-off as
the longest long shot–
or, to euphemize,
when comes the low moment
you might rather self-euthanize
and rephrase
and re-gaze
on those odds
that move in sluggish ways,
and rename the wished-for outcome
“imminent,”
though the odds may tell us no,
we see
that longshotlife-light quicken soon
and brightly grow
from its hidden, buried glow
to reign kind and clear and very gracious,
so powerful and eminent.
And, though, by nature,
you’ve been so frugal,
and held with cautious clutch
your cash,
in the air you sniff,
the life and light,
and, though right now,
they be not bright,
for some strange reason
you don’t quite know,
but, anyway,
in its robust return
you believe so. . .
and sense
that you can bet on it.
The Danforth Anchor 