Witness
Sometimes the mountain
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes
I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day,
to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.
by Denise Levertov
*
Awake Awhile
It does not have to be Forever,
Right Now.
One Step upon the Sky's soft skirt
Would be enough.
by Hafiz
*
Awake
Waking today
just before winter
when I try to name the color of grasses,
how I feel of their beauty,
there is no word.
I think of the time before there were
words
when you would know morning mist
by the feel
of your loved one's skin and hair,
and when someone came from the forest
of dry leaves
you would know by their scent
even if they carried no wood.
Or the heat of their body skin in summer.
Or if they came the winding way
down from the mountains
they would be covered in cloud
returning to the fold
or if they had gone farther, to the ocean,
you'd know them by their far-seeing eyes,
and when some travelers return
and are shining with light
you know, without saying, that they
have been
in touch with other worlds.
I have no wealth to speak of
other than this,
all this, just to praise the dry grasses
and their color that can't be spoken
in words.
by Linda Hogan
*
