June

 

One morning, I walked down

the ditch between young corn and shining gravel,

cool white sand

 

lovely to my uncalloused feet.

I shuffled toward the giant trees hanging

over the road, 

 

walked right into a shower of music,

as strange as the melodies picked up by radio 

telescopes--music from the stars.

 

I couldn’t see any aliens,

but I knew their hymn--how wide the sky

was my rough translation,

 

or maybe the visitors

were merely chirping, laughing at a dirty

blond boy: a wingless creature,

 

how slowly and quietly he moves.

I could tell they were the true rulers of the universe,

making radiant the worm,

 

the grasshopper, the morning glory-- 

the singers’ babel a blessing, 

telling everything to grow.

 

 

 

 

--John Thomas York © 2012

 

from Cold Spring Rising:  

 

https://www.press53.com/john-thomas-york