If I Feel Fully

don’t call me poor
when i am there as the western larch
splashes her yellow tea
across autumn mountain-sky

don’t call me poor
when i am there as the sleek necks
of geese hook their own winter
into lakes that foamed out of ice-caves

or when the alpine agora opens
its merchant doors for spring business
before the last eviction of snows,
don’t call me destitute
for possessing its witness
when i am there, bagless, naked
and astounded

i know you thought of silence and slowness
as sadness
when my hunger turned its eyes on ghosts,

but do you imagine those green papers
any less ghostly, or that
ghoulish numbered screen
as worth more spirit
to my senses in summer’s power
when i follow
these fireflies into forest rivers?

i remember what speaks real color
when the unbuyable alone
is present, and divestment of having owned
heats my heart
with the limitless possible
of preservation

don’t call me destitute
if i claim the assets of forest grove
over fortune made of desecration, a love
in the leaf-face
is the simple i want feel
that settles near my child’s face,
future rich in memory
of this unfettered, rain-felted faeriespace

so don’t call me poor
on the days before i find her
next to mouths rimmed with green stars,

or on the nights before we join,
gratitude falling in a gallery of needles,
dancing in a plaza of moonlight,
surmounted so softly
with living fur and the fortunate
flow of elements–in essence

a bank of music
in the resin-scent lave of pine trees
whose notes resound with shameless wildness
and whose deepest peace plays us
to sleep, wholesound and affluent
in what we have not,
holding onto nothing,
having nothing as our own,
only becoming that resonance of bond
whose relation means all in all

 

(c) J. Celan Smith