what is this covetous heaviness
of gold, filtering its being
through the sieve of timeless afternoon,
where, blind and light,
i hold on?
is it core, substance out of substance
that is some nest of fire, quivering
as in peacock heat sent hissing midst space
to announce the birth of
out of such plantlike warmth?
before running into its feed
of inaugural insect life
while jealous dangers perch ominous
on the ledges of shadowsbreath,
i plea you:
unwilled and sitting,
thinking, yet as still as . . .
the warmth whispers
in tiles that make up clay faces, swept
and gleaming like meadows
worth their wet colors, the thaw
glossing from the earthing turf,
and smiling, all you see . . .
someone, more there than Being,
sings awareness to save you
amongst double rainbows in the mist,
transient and forgotten so quickly,
unprocessed, remiss . . .
and the song, heavenly
as a village of children’s voices,
secretes its mystery in the mouth
of daylight, subtle and shy,
as underspoken insight that swipes
its call to openness gently
on ears not quite ready
for the homing of this Naivete
© J. Celan Smith