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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:

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