Poem of the Week

When you look up, or out,

or in, your seeing is

a substance: stuff: a density

of some kind, like a pitch

that’s just outside the range

of hearing: numb

nudge of the real.

                I saw air

once, in its nothingness

so clear it was a voice

almost, a kind of joy. I thought

of water – breath as drinking -

and the way it shows us

light. Or maybe it was light

I thought of – as though

water were the solid form

of wind, and air

a language with a single word

transparent to the world.

Your glance is this,

meltwater, mountain light.

The plunge and thunder of the pool.

The ripple at its farthest edge.