and because I am that, I dare
to converse, having just witnessed
a storm of blackbirds descend
on the path below my window,
then wheel upward as if they were threads
worked into a flickering net a hand
cast over an invisible sea—
And I know nothing
right now will change— Children
will cry over their fathers’ coffins
but won’t bring them back; widows
will find no portents in twisted vines,
and old men will keep their own counsel
when valleys fill with the skins
shed by snakes—
And I do not look
for signs or wonders,
only for a plainer
meaning that might be seen—
frost that came in the night
bringing brittle death to the crops,
animals caught in stillbirth.
Not the sight of bodies turned
inside out in the grass.
In response to Via Negativa: Getting religion.