Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Driving through the Autumn San Joaquin

The blue and ragged curtain of
The mountains, low and far away,
Was drawn, or fallen into dust,
Or hidden by a higher veil
Dropped from the sky. A scarf of mist
Would be too coarse (a barricade
To fence our valley in) compared
To this luminous wealth of air:
The sheer melding of the margin
Of heaven with horizon. Wide
World you have forgotten to have
An end. You play infinity,
And spread your banquet table in
A cloth of harvest green and gold
That goes forever. Or we ride
Along a titan’s gallery
Where every form is beautiful,
But towering to our holy fear.
Amid your art (your oaks and farms)
We run with unexpected joy.
We praise, and wonder at our own
Strange happiness, that so adores
And rests content, as if we knew
That, in this praise, our work is done.

Dennis Evans, 1987

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