Much better,
now you’ve climbed the little hill
to sit in
solitude until this spill of feelings dissipates:
the overkill of
sensory indulgence in a day!
The way the
sun keeps gilding hay to gold:
the alchemy
of infinitely varied colors, shadows, shapes
in every
pebble, puddle, leaf: no relief from their
relentlessly proliferating
asymmetric angles, bumps
and curves: the
endless importuning of a pressing
strangeness: the
painful beauty of its range. Old
is always new
now: nothing’s ever through. This is what
the mind
imbibes: this is how the revolution of the soul
unfolds: this describes the evolution of an angel.
.
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