By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 7/26/07

The issue is no longer one of remembrance
Or anticipation. It has something to do
With the way the ripening pears have clustered
Their pendulous bodies on the pear tree’s branches,
Or how the geraniums emancipate ruddy
From clouds of green. The arrogant scholars
With their hoards of servile pronouncements
Cannot explicate it. But we heard the beginning
Of the explication in our hearts, not in our heads,
As if an earthen keyboard the color of muddy runoff
Were typing out, syllable by syllable,
The great confabulation of the Savior’s dream.
It is not a narrative conducive to rational analysis.
But in the morning, when we rise, a little elated,
A little disconcerted, we see in the folding,
The unfolding of the fog, in the mountains
Appearing, disappearing in the vaporous
Conglomeration, a small figure emerging
From the vague immensity. The figure is that
Of a woman, who has hidden her beauty
For millennia from the depredations
Of fearsome and fearful men. She is holding
Something tiny and delicate, something astonishingly
Red. It is not a thing of human manufacture.

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