Because I lay on my back as a boy in the grass of the small yard behind our house watching clouds move and become faces, mostly,
Of all the saints, my Anthony,
I love you best. For you did
what I long to do: you walked away
from a life of comfort and ease,
This is the Month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav’ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
The ram’s horn bellowed.
Fused with snapped spears and hatchet heads
nicked shields covered the field,
that light kept me a year in its grip first
my feet caught fire then my blood
we moved at the edge of endlessness
headless handless mouthless mind-
To you who are lost today
like a needle in a haystack, reading this poem alone.
Alone, brother island, sister moon. The ocean is big,
A grace of green, the underleaf
of olive, the birdsong’s
cradling. It’s as though
How the earth now
struggles into spring.
How the cold hangs on,
each morning cracking to begin.
Violet, whispered Eve, because
saying the names aloud
made the act too real. Pansy
and woodruff, the flowers so small