If we don’t reveal—through a
Return to you not because We are afraid, not because we Seek applause, or follow laws; Through a faith that meets you In the park, that sights you Where the traffic swells, where In the dark smoke blights you; In the orchard, where the showy Apples keep their seeds concealed, In the field, where puffballs Free their spores; or a yield Of golden sparks in a sifting pan; Of ore shoots and hidden veins-- The light that hovers, not white, But not not-white, then hurricanes Strap the coast, drive mud upon The trunks, drive down the hawks, Strip the maples and hollyhocks, Batter and flatten the wheat stalks, The osprey staggers, its wing dragging, The sky, its natural home, is gray, Is shattering with pellets of rain, Till at night it sees the Milky Way.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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September 2019
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