OBSCURITY

Someday I shall be a leaf A shining green leaf, fan-folded, One of many opening in a sunlit wind; Or I shall be a bit of bark, Say on the Poverty Birch— Since I am obscure and poor and short of life And my work of no account to commerce—, And I shall flutter there in the wind, My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin And cross-hatched with lines of color; Or—but I do not know what I shall be And it does not matter. God has made so much that alters beautiful: The jigging shadows of trees Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change; The wind that tramps eternity; The very lava of this universe He turns to frost; Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam And tosses into space the spinning stars.

I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad Remembering their soft dress in spring? Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass? And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem? I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,— They sound so strong for any wind. But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed And I am awkward and ill at ease— Clothes have a way of telling stories Even as the bark of trees will tell Which way the storm winds blow— I remember when I was young And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes, My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves And there were more than I needed; And my hair was soft and thick, With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring; And my body was lithe and vigorous; When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm, The least clearing wind set me free again And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves Shaking the sunlight into dance.

Now I lie awake at night, many nights, Sometimes when I am ill, Sometimes when I am well, And think about money and rents in worn clothes And feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats As if it were my own hunger; And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper And flaps tattered dirty shawls over me, And my thoughts are bent and old And I shiver in the dark trying to bless God. I wonder why God gives Himself to trees And lets old women starve? And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper? And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold As fat beech buds against the frost? Do you suppose God is a Merchant And sells this warm lustre from the stars— Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind— And plans to make a profit from the rich?... I am not an anarchist Except in stars.

When the dawn comes it brings the crows. Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows! The crow sleeps east but west he blows To pick some carrion that he knows Caw! Caw! Caw! It blows!

I travel East to meet the sun With a gray heron battling up against the wind, Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep, Above the trees that toss the light, Above the rocks that blossom into rose, On towards the sun! It does not matter now how I am clothed; For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts, Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored, Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind, And the lustre on the heron’s breast Is now God and now the Morning Star: I travel East to meet the sun!