To Call Up
Struggling, you see only the struggle,
not the maze outlined in burnt sienna
as a wand writes the light upon the field
and the trees dip down to gently kiss
the spring. In your running, amazed
by the power of your creations, you have forgotten
how breath also comes to nightmares
and the bruise licks the tongue of the snake.
In childhood, did the barn burn itself
to the ash—or was it you, holding that godly
match to the surrounding air.
The horses, lonely in their cells,
set loose by your mercy.
The space between understanding
and regret has been too wide
to bridge with words.
I throw them, but they hang down
in the waters of recollection
as if to kiss, as those trees,
some other source.