65

The little hills rejoice at the sight
Of their many children, the valleys
Clothed in the wool of the lamb,
Softened by showers, broken
Into furrows from which their own
In turn spring up—yellow corn
Rejoicing in the coming
Of sun and at its leaving, the evening,
Cooling as the leaves enfold,
Protecting every tooth that feeds
And cheers the men who wander
And tent near streams that water,
And climb near skies to wonder
At the sleeper who dreams at one pole
And beams at the other
And in dreaming makes whole.

We a drunken tongue, dumb
To a bell that rings as we strike
The outer edge. To this
All flesh comes

Near the spark, nearer the flame,
Clearer the voice, dearer the name.


© Dan Goorevitch