After the Vision of Her Face

I knew nothing, not the slow-motion billow

Of cumulo-nimbus overhead, nor the infinite depth

Of pale blue sky, not even the annoyance

Of black flies. I knew nothing except fatigue –

A joyous blur that fogged every word

I hoped to speak or would again read

Or wrap into the semblance of a thought.

Yet, every muscle in my body, startled

Alive, seemed vigilant to the May afternoon,

As though the beatific could be found

Lounging on a hay bale in the cow barn

Or glimpsed in the eye of a Holstein

The moment the sun reflects in it,

As though day was itself a catechism.

Does time sanctify space with hymns

To the tiny wonders of this world?

In the air, what floats is chanted;

What is glorious walks alone, patient.