Of Many Songs
I have sung of the sun in the sky:
The grandeur and gold of it,
The splendorous reign of it,
The melt and the mold of it,
The bliss and the pain of it.
I have sung of the moon in the sky
The young and the old of it,
The wax and the wane of it,
The far-distant cold of it,
Celestial fane of it.
I have sung of the stars and their flight:
The slip and the stray of them,
The reach and the room of them,
The lilt and the play of them,
The gleam and the gloom of them.
I have sung of the clouds in their flight::
The white and the gray of them,
Summer’s great plumes of them,
The wind and the spray of them,
Bright ocean spume of them.
I have sung of the spring and the fall:
The glimmer and glow of them,
The cruelty and care of them,
The swift and the slow of them,
The storms and the glare of them.
I have sung of the raindrops that fall:
The sparkling flow of them,
The blooms all aware of them,
The breeze and the blow of them,
With whispers and blare of them.
I have sung of the small birds that fly:
The ochre and swart of them,
The soft feathered wings of them,
The spirit and heart of them,
The springtime that sings of them.
I have sung of the brief butterfly:
The rich peacock-art of them,
The waltzing in rings of them,
The dance and the dart of them,
The flutters and flings of them.
I have sung of saguaros that rise:
The joy and the rue of them,
The long silent keen of them.
The wisdom that grew with them,
In old roots unseen of them.
I have sung of the mountains that rise:
The purple and blue of them,
The gold and the green of them,
The beauteous view of them,
The shadows and sheen of them.
I have sung of the dusk and the dawn:
The clear summer’s light of them,
The soft winter’s gleam of them,
The birds that take flight with them,
The very first beam of them.
I have sung of the lives at the dawn,
At noon and at night of them;
I’ve sung you the theme of them,
And still I shall write of them:
The music and dream of them.
A Half-Moon Night
Golden glow spreads from the moon,
Setting, setting all too soon,
Slumbering at half-past one.
When the night is scarce half-done,
Half a moon drifts down the hill,
Softly, softly, all is is still.
As clouds clear away
the night comes alive with stars.
An elf owl calls twice.
"I have sung of saguaros that rise:
The joy and the rue of them,
The long silent keen of them."
The entire poem "Of Many Songs" is quite a tour de force- in length, in detail, in descriptive power. Really quite something. thanks Amy for one hell of a poem.
"I have sung of the stars and their flight:
The slip and the stray of them,
The reach and the room of them,
The lilt and the play of them,
The gleam and the gloom of them."
A whole desert lifetime in this poem. Breathtaking.