Mosaic

Winter is an etching,
spring a watercolor,
summer an oil painting

and autumn a mosaic of them all.
~Stanley Horowitz

I’m not so different from an ear of mosaic maize,
multifaceted pieces of tesserae
fit together just so.

Depending on how the Light falls
I could be tile to be tread or
a kaleidoscope of stained glass reflections in sacred space,
a gemstone necklace of colored beads,
or simply corn on the cob hanging from a stalk.

Plain and infinitely luminous,
just like the Artist Himself.

Corn Rows Flicking By

It was one of those days
when the sun poured gold
into the air, and flecks of
light floated in shafts that
fell through the branches
of yellow leaf and green.

We’d had dinner at a place
on the edge of a lake, and
now we were going back
to town. There was a simple
way to get there, but she
didn’t take it. Instead, we

drove the country roads
with the corn rows flicking by,
each one visible for a half
second, then gone. “Hello,
hello, hello,” they said, then
“Good-bye, bye, bye, bye.”

The soybeans, we agreed,
had turned burgundy overnight,
but it was the cornfields we
watched, as if we were waiting
for the waters to open, as if
we might cross over Jordan.

~Joyce Sutphen “Country Roadsfrom After Words

Traveling the country roads around here
can feel a bit like seeking the entrance
to the promised land:
we can see it,
just over there,
glowing with so much potential.
We haven’t quite found the way,
it flicks by so quickly.
It’s not yet our time, so
we tread hungrily on the outskirts
almost tasting the promise
and waiting for the invitation to come.



Whirling in Circles

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waspnest11

 

Now all the doors and windows
are open, and we move so easily
through the rooms. Cats roll
on the sunny rugs, and a clumsy wasp
climbs the pane, pausing
to rub a leg over her head.

All around physical life reconvenes.
The molecules of our bodies must love
to exist: they whirl in circles
and seem to begrudge us nothing.
Heat, Horatio, heat makes them
put this antic disposition on!

This year’s brown spider
sways over the door as I come
and go. A single poppy shouts
from the far field, and the crow,
beyond alarm, goes right on
pulling up the corn.
~Jane Kenyon, “Philosophy in Warm Weather” from Otherwise

 

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spiderdrizzle

 

Whether weather is very or very cold, so go our molecules — indeed our very atoms are constantly awhirl to keep us upright whenever we sweat or shiver.

This summer my doors and windows have been flung wide open; I’m seeing and hearing and feeling all that I can absorb, never to forget the gift of being human witness to it all.

Like a dog trying to catch its tail, I’m whirling in circles, trying to grab what will always elude me.

 

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homermaple

 

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