XV.
(Moustieres Sainte Marie)
Misty green lake in the high alps
Adolescence again---
Diving from the bridge and cliff
As multicolored boats drift by.
Recollections of home and Raystown Lake
Though the steep canyon walls towering before me are new.
The green lake is in my poet’s eye
As the high hills fill my vision.
Fishwatermusick is everlasting rhythm
The voice of the final human being/the inward man.
Families recreate in the summer sun
Life from life
Undying and eternal
A word that speaks in so many tongues
Wafting across the lake with the echoing drum.
Today, all of these little things---
Pink caps and paddles,
Towels on the pebble beach
Paul smiling
Ode joyous
Thick clouds so tall above the pale mountains
Like Pennsylvania.
All of this exuberance is being lifted up into eternity.
All of these brown dogs,
Black swimming suits,
Red canoes,
And chalk white dusty walks
Are rising up into immortality.
The poet sings this
His eyes reveal it
And it is so.
Wonder of it all that all is well.
Everywhere flesh and shining eyes,
Laughing voices in the human pasttime.
Every body rises and wakes anew
Every tear is a tear of joy.
XVI.
(Rousillon-Le Canyon des Ocres)
Canyon of yellow ochre---
Canyon of gold---
Canyon of red bulging towers of dull ribbons,
Dwarf evergreen oaks,
Dry scent of lofty pines crowns this work
While cicadas incessantly hum.
God has given me another vision today
In the high alps of Provence
beyond Grasse
with lavender blankets
and fields of sunflowers
where sunlight traverses 93 million miles to bathe the humble earth.
Heat wafts up from pine needles with a charming perfume.
The true light awakes to His creation---
Alive to all places and times,
Eternally alive.
The Son of Man is continuously waking
As the poet peers ever deeper into the great blue sky;
When there is great distance in one time
There is eternal life;
Where there is all of time in one place there is eternal life.
To find more of God in every little thing and in every face.
Reflecting upon this canyon at sunset whose dusty pigment
The earth has prepared mostly for our enjoyment.*
We are in the workshop of a beautiful artist
Whose unfinished, living painting
I am the brush.
* (Chandogya Upanishad).
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