! ! To Friedrich Holderlin, Poet

Here in this river valley below the Alps which mimic high Olympus’ watching spirit, everyone’s a silent poet of nature: lakes; rivers; green fields; steeper goatfoot pastures; forests; bare gaunt rocks and snow; and the poetry of seasons of the year. Once to see the seasons through, is to be a little nearer God; to know how gods measure out the earth. Here inside the wooden room, the measures, not so clear: measured out by sterner, darker gods whose seasons are not so predictable: storms, tempests, thunder, flood may last until we learn lessons we do not yet understand. Outside the window now the last rays of evening sun catch the metal spire of the nestling church; its metal lightning conductor running down its walls to that patch of earth whose signs of scorching warn the devout soul.. Here inside the room, the poet too: aspiring spire, lightning conductor; rattling between heaven and earth, torn by view of outside, inside.. Poets are only responsible to their words when lining up their obstinacies in the mind, on paper: after that, must send them on their way: the words mean more, or less, than the poets knew while writing them; someone else may make better use of them. This too, the measure of the gods, of God. * Friedrich Holderlin, bi-polar poet-philosopher,1770-1843; correspondent of Goethe, inspirer of Rilke, subject of much discussion by philosopher Martin Heidegger.