Meeting Point
Squalltalk and mizzle-talk.
We dissolve in a weather of words: remaining, our Parchment and deadwood. Talkative Weather of the window writes More musical music, And its cool descant duets In with the buds. The wind-touched plants In a metronome quiet are proud From the humus. Tree-sap at work, Wines of spring like Claret stored in the haw and A wet-fresh, brown maturing, crisp In the hazel: self-divulged At a mute instant of winter.
The tree, served, Prepares the big turn-over Of spring in a wordless economy. Planted Humbleness toiling at easy Achievement for men the major, The creative epoch Also. And you, as I write Or listen, enlarge in my mind; and I think of That year's-pleasant-thing we also Rooted, perfected in silence, Let flower. JOHN HOLLOWAY
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