Archaic Recovery

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/22/08

Our apotheosis was not what we expected.
The dormant volcanic cones of our familiar
Mountains did not erupt, and the white
Vagaries rising from their tops were not
Steam, but mist, as the day breathed softly,
Out, in, out, in, expressing the nuzzling
Greeneries of rain: gentleness, a soft fading
Of grey light into a night of faintly polished
Dun and maroon pastels, a sleep that is like
The warmth of embracing lovers, which has
Not quite tapered into dream. The old anxieties
Did not flare out in paroxysms of catastrophe,
Worry was simply blanketed, like a belovéd child,
Who is touchingly wrapped in wool. Yes, before
We knew it, we were underground. Darkness
Wound round and down, our ecstatic torches
Providing just enough light to keep the fantastic
Shadows a bit at bay, until, al last, to the cool
Drip-drop of soothing, unseen waters,
We found ourselves in the chamber.
Here, we place our hands on the wall
And outline them with ochre. Here, the great
Animals in our hearts revive their wondrous
Migrations. Here, our apotheosis,
Torn from our savage, innocent voices,
Echoes the honey of song among the crystals,
As the blessings of peace are magically reborn.

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