Gospel

    The new grass rising in the hills，

    the cows loitering in the morning chill，

    a dozen or more old browns hidden

    in the shadows of the cottonwoods

    beside the streambed. I go higher

    to where the road gives up and there's

    only a faint path strewn with lupine

    between the mountain oaks. I don't

    ask myself what I'm looking for.

    I didn't come for answers

    to a place like this， I came to walk

    on the earth， still cold， still silent.

    Still ungiving， I've said to myself，

    although it greets me with last year's

    dead thistles and this year's

    hard spines， early blooming

    wild onions， the curling remains

    of spider's cloth. What did I bring

    to the dance？ In my back pocket

    a crushed letter from a woman

    I've never met bearing bad news

    I can do nothing about. So I wander

    these woods half sightless while

    a west wind picks up in the trees

    clustered above. The pines make

    a music like no other， rising and

    falling like a distant surf at night

    that calms the darkness before

    first light. "Soughing" we call it， from

    Old English， no less. How weightless

    words are when nothing will do.