Plants are growing up around me before my eyes. Weeds spring forth. I feel a need to spring-clean, release. Perhaps we harbor food and stuff in the winter when the outside is bare and now all is so lush, we are drawn outside and want the inner spare. Perhaps we also unclutter thought, become more clear on why we are here. Perhaps we are here to enjoy the spring.
Yesterday I was reading from Mark Doty's wonderful book Source.
Principalities of June
- Mark Doty
Original light broke apart,
the Gnostics say,
when time began,
singular radiance
fractioned into form
- an easy theory
to believe,
in early summer,
when that first performance
seems repeated daily.
Though wouldn't it mean
each fracturing took us
that much further
from heaven?
Not in this town,
not in June: harbor
and cloudbank, white houses'
endlessly broken planes,
a long argument
of lilac shadows and whites
as blue as noon:
phrasebooks of day,
articulated most of all,
in these roses,
which mount and swell
in dynastics of bloom,
their easy idiom
a soundless compaction
of lip on lip. Their work,
these thick flowerheads?
Built to contain
sunlight, they interrupt
that movement just enough
to transfix in air, at eye level,
now: held still, and shattering,
which is the way with light:
the more you break it
the nearer it comes to whole.
