I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing.
- Dorothy Wordsworth, The Grasmere Journal - Thursday 15 April 1802.
Long before us, long during the journey of us
& long after us, there will always be
clouds the size of our collected imagination
spooning the sky, waiting
to disrobe their white shrouds.
The sky waiting, to begin again the music
of life, of love, of laughter,
a triptych melody, some Debussy dream,
puffy beard fingers
trying to catch the yellow balloon
rising like a breath, each morning
warmer than the previous evening
each day more alive than dead.
The balloon will still be burning
in the darkness of space, sailing far
from the frowning boy who let it go
long ago, having never dreamt of Icarus,
only of endless fields of green
stored in concrete vaults, or number machines
able to calculate life yet never live for themselves,
nor split the atom without knowing why.
Long after us, he pollution will be gone
as will be the words that made the ache,
that made the loss, that made the death.
Long after us, the makers of the wind
will billow again, electric chords
that make the wind, the trickster it is,
invisible fingers begin playing the air
like flitters on piano keys, and the beat drum
of rain will spill the pollution into the oceans
wave after wave crashing like symbols
churning what is bad, back into good,
and somewhere bright, somewhere warm
love will be reborn, the history of history
long laid to rest & spread like ashes
into sterile soil to sweeten the soil structure
returning earth back to the earth.
Long before us & long after us, there will always be
golden crowns tumbling up from the tilth
able to dance with the wind, with the air
grooving to the quiet music of life.