“A gardener rises out of the ground,
Stands like a tree, shakes off the dark,
The bluebells opening at his feet,
The light a figured cloth of song.”
― Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997
FIELD NOTES #35
Its odd to imagine that we spend
most of our lives spinning, dancing
in concentric circles around
some unfamiliar pole, never once
stopping, always moving, the earth
holding its course like a diligent
sailor setting out to open sea.
For once I’d like to know
what its like to be the sun,
to lay back across the black abyss
and watch the planets dance:
some ancient observer looking up
in the sun saw a god—
what is god but gravity,
the pull that sets you free.