The geese, returning. First
the sky, then the water
filled with form, with
calling. Always as before.
The birches lift their leaves
towards the light, more
green today than yesterday.
A fish mouths the mirror;
ripples measure a proximity
to everything. The jetty
stems the chuckling water.
You are sitting near the edge;
looking, always as before ...
You are elsewhere, first
the eyes, and then the hands.
They make it very clear:
your hands, their shadow,
and just there between them
your reflection, writhing
over silvered darkness.
(after Rilke)
Innerness of hand. Sole,
that now walks only on feeling.
That has become able to hold itself
upward, in its mirror
revealing heavenly streets, which
themselves are travelling.
That has learned to walk on water,
while drawing forth;
that passes over upwelling springs,
transforming every path.
That steps into other hands,
making all semblances into landscape;
wanders and arrives in them,
and fills them with arrival.