There were low, old hills broadly from us, I
could feel them far beyond my back; in sun
I might have seen them no more than deep warm
green wrinkles where the sky touched
down so far and old
they were. But they were
there, giving form, a needful thing,
an essential thing, as
the platform gave form to the words of the
women and placed them, gave them stature and
niche and frame and light and
gathered their sounds, clustered them, flung them forth in
beauteous cascades of revelation and avowal.
In
a way, then, unbeknownst save subtly guessed within, they
were embraced though the platform seemed to
hold the center of the broad and softly, slowly,
undulating sea of green whose infrequent lanes
and low walls passed unnoticed, only
the channels and separate groves of full lobed green trees stitched
the green grasses, green grains, under the
wet gray sky which did not move or churn or
fill its cheeks or make a sound yet
existed.
I watched
them.
From
within the last parting of the dripping leafy tassels swaying
suspended submarine about my shoulders, tapping my legs, I
watched the women of the meadow and my hand
went out unknown to me and touched the wet
green pointed leaves covering me, making me 1
with them observing and completing though
the women did not seem to care.