by Linda Gregg

by Linda Gregg
     Something was pouring out. Filling the field
     and making it vacant. A wind blowing them
     sideways as they moved forward. The crying
     as before. Suddenly I understood why they left
     the empty bowls on the table， in the empty hut
     overlooking the sea. And knew the meaning
     of the heron breaking branches， spreading
     his wings in order to rise up out of the dark
     woods into the night sky. I understood about
     the lovers and the river in January.
     Heard the crying out as a battlement，
     of greatness， and then the dying began.
     The height of passion. Saw the breaking
     of the moon and the shattering of the sun.
     Believed in the miracle because of the half heard
     and the other half seen. How they ranged
     and how they fed. Let loose their cries.
     One could call it the agony in the garden，
     or the paradise， depending on whether
     the joy was at the beginning， or after.