Wednesday, May 15, 2013

The Planes Out Of Boston \ The Rainbow Completes Itself

Nancy:  Transatlantic flights follow the coastline until reaching the Maine border, then head out over the Atlantic.

The Planes Out Of Boston

I never said it was a wilderness,
just a bay so empty that I could sit
naked where the rocks shelved down
to the water, where I made so little difference
to the marsh hawk that she swept down
the shoreline, across, back, again, again.
It wasn’t wilderness, it was forest
and bobcat and bear and the wildness
of abandonment.

Until the sun set.
After the sun set, Orion ruled.  Orion,
the Swan, Sirius, the Great Bear.  And
that was wilderness.  I could stand
in an opening between black trees and be
in the wilderness of Arcturus.

Now, after the sun sets, I’m in the suburbs
of Boston, or New York, or Chicago.  Here,
where the land shelves off into the North Atlantic,
the planes head east past the pole star,
blinking red toward breakfast in London.

I know, I never said it was a wilderness.
But now I realize it’s just a small, dark woodland;
I am very very far from Arcturus.

Alan: We all know there’s no pot of gold at the end.  Rather, I think, each rainbow seeks its destiny underground.

The Rainbow Completes Itself

in the roots
in the stones
in the graves
the rainbow completes itself
in the ground
the rainbow completes itself
in what we call earth
that is no more earth
than what we call sky
is sky –
in the deep waters
in fissures of granite
in the basalt
in the magma
in the molten core
and in the core of iron
the rainbow completes itself –
though it begins in air
as we do
the rainbow completes itself
in the ground
as we do

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