Be Not Afraid

Another old poem from the moldy, musty folder. Uneven. Derivative.

I still like it.

MARCH

(Noli timere)

.

Close!

.

Almost the vision

.

1 2 3 times in the fading light:

like fish in frozen stream

moving toward evolution.

.

Restless in this waking season

I'm drawn once more to trails and woods

still bare of green and slick with snow.

I come upon a doe, and

startled, half-starved,

eye to eye we know

that we have both survived.

.

I ask the elusive Giver, hovering just beyond reach--

what power have you brought to me,

unrecognized--

imperceptible shining--

my only answer:

sudden golden gliding wingspans in the pouring light;

bare, toothless smiles of old men

grown gay with waiting.

.

I am a singing fool.

Even the peepfrogs know

but say amen at the water's edge

to the shape and sound and smell of things:

to endless march toward what's to come.