Clouds Moving East

Prayer, 

said Mechthild of Magdeburg, 

brings together two lovers, 

God and the soul, 

in a narrow room where they speak much 

of love...

The Cloud of Unknowing

Already the moon is blunted,

a melon left on the marble

counter for days and days

in its ripening

rind, its sheer mass pressed

by gravity. The suit

is heavier than any one 

body, sentient or not, can

endure in its wild 

and flaunting ignorance.

Imagine, bereft of being free

of the tree or vine

it complined within,

that it's not 

tethered, that it's not

dependent on fingers

and palms and come-up-from-

the-bottom buoyancy

to lift it from its own 

mass and save it by making it

briefly, weightless.   Let me

ask you: 

are you sometimes covetous

of the wind that the tops

of the trees, needles and leaves

sift and sieve? Or fractured

by it? Because the sun is the sun,

because a combination of this 

and an early May 

morning when after 

the clouds going east

have been carded and thinned,

there's still

a bit of the green 

in the canopy of the king's 

pines is lit into a rust 

so like copper,

so like bronze there's been

a reverse verdigris?  And

throwing caution up you want

to extend your gratitude

for seeing such a portent

that you forget your skin

and bones and strings

of sinew and compromised

by the weight

of gravity and you fly

up to take the host 

into your own fingers

and communion dew

onto your tongue 

and for the rest of your brief

life you remain miraculous

and unpoisoned?