By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/19/08

As if it were a ghost that had fallen from a luminous
Height and had passed through some glittering,
Translucent material as it fell, the earth,
With its whole collection of winged trees,
And serpentine waters, greets us this evening
With one of its final summer proclamations:
“Brazen.” Whoever says the word, says it in colors,
Not sounds, colors that have moved nimbly,
Silently from an interior landscape, where they
Have saturated themselves with emotion.
Now they slide swiftly through the trees,
And across the choppy bay, and then bleach out
In the sky, not paled by the intensities
Of their travels, but fevered down to a blue
Essence adorned with bridal clouds. “Brazen.”
That’s its romance, its final simplicity,
That is can remain perfectly what it is,
Derisive of every disenchantment,
Deadly to all parodies of pastorals. That is can
Compel us to actually see the imperceptible,
The inner one who is as potent as she is alive,
Adapting her blissful body to millions of forms.

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