Two Flights
D
Daniel Brick
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A partially dimmed sunlight
flows through the open window
and spreads across the desk
where I labor over THE BOOK OF THE SUN
by Marsilio Ficino, whose subtle
orphic thought finds welcome
residence in my mind. Outside
a lone woodpecker pounds
the hard bark of his occasional
home. I imagine him totally engaged,
never weighing advantage against
disadvantage, feeling neither stress
nor joy. He simply acts
in his natural way, simply inhabits
a circle of activity defined by
the same sun which summoned him
from sleep... When silence ensues,
I suppose he has departed
for another tree, and I turn
the page and enter the last stage
of Marsilio's argument. His words
have coalesced in my mind to a fulfillment
of thought. Is this not the benign result
of my labors? The earlier presage
of rain will soon be realized.
An early darkness will descend
on this June day. I am ready
for whatever degree of darkness
will shroud me: having both Marsilio's
thought and the bird's industry
residing in my mind, two flights
having come to rest within me.
Bu şiiri puanla
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