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: