Noble Visitation

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 12/9/07

The last roses have mated with the first frost,
And this morning, blushing pink as peonies,
They lean east towards a sun, which rises late,
As it will set early, but which nevertheless
Is most meticulous in his tasks. Illumination
Is everywhere, even deep down in the tiniest
Crystals of frost, and in the translucent spiraled
Folds of the drooping rose. And with the illumination
Comes a prelude of sweet stillness, large, large and blue.
Something is about to happen.
We have seen color before,
Been impressed by its tonal splendors,
Those scintilla of joy, which shower the vision
And arouse a storm in the emotional body
That reveals the living pulse beneath the lawn.
But this morning it is different. It is richer.
The color is not over there, but in here,
In here, glowing, even with the eyes closed
Or diverted, so that almost against our will,
We are swept into the brilliance of this brief
Winter’s day, and bestowed a fantastic honor.
So many jewels in the breastplate of the grass,
As the big angel stands up, immense as the sky,
In the little housing of our bodies!
Now it is, it is happening. This is the angel that makes
The color sound, as his exuberance
Proclaims, with a warrior’s arrogance
And flourish, that everything that is is ours and grand.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.