The Promise of the Earth
my brain is ready for the spring
medicine of the Adirondacks-that
fragrance of grace in her naked fingers,
holding a quiet sun, with a hush. My
heart is ready. My legs and tendons
are ready. On the snow dirtied with mud
like the tips of mink fur, my feet are
ready. The wisdom of these ancestral
trails call me to be alone in a temple of
deep space, and my soul is ready. Where
there is no religion but God and water and
land and shadows and the scent of charred
balsam and arrowroot. A warm breath on
my neck, and the entire history of the earth
promised in a poem, I am ready. I am ready.
Read More Poems From The New York Almanack HERE.
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