It is true that trees
can strike in me a flash
of wonder, thin the plane
between other worlds,
awaken what is ripe
to yearn in me to yearn.
A course of clouds can crowd
the sky unearthing deep
deposits of iron awe,
raw in the hidden depths
of my every day world
that turns and make it turn.
The stream that sings along
its winding way beneath
the moss-dressed log and through
the alder grove can crack
the thick of creeping freeze
keeping my soul in keep.
But even these pale beside
(after long your absence)
that moment I first hear—
like swift-pierce lightning spears
slicing through my senses—
to hear that you are here.