The lightning waked me.
It slid unde r
my eyelid. A black book flipped ope
n
to an illuminated page. Then insta
ntly
shut. Words of destiny were being
ut-
tered in the distance. If only I
could
make them out! . . . Next day, as I lay
in the sun, a symbol for concei ving the
universe was scratched on my e yeball.
But quickly its point eclipse d, and
softened, in the scabbard of my brain.
My cat speaks one word: Fo
ur vowels
and a consonant. He rece ives with the
hairs of his body the wh ispers of the
stars. The kinglet spe aks by flashing
into view a ruby feath er on his head.
He is held by a threa d to the eye of
the sun and cannot fall into error.
Any flower is a per fect ear, or else it
is a thousand lips ...When will I grope
clear of the entr ails of the intellect?
May
Swenson
Nature: Poems Old and New