A clean form of meaning
solid as the hill may be
too much to expect
when our whole lives
go unexplained even
with our few flourishes
which themselves
need explanation.
A mob of blackbirds
settles in the oaks
their chatter sounds
like running water
their sudden launch
like surf
a thousand wings
against the air.
You understand
without the shape
of thought
you love your life
poor as it is
and may have found
an impermanent heaven
by not knowing hell.
–afrer reading the early, undated journal entries of Henry David Thoreau, circa 1845.
