You had to be there, where the river bent,
starry with warm slants of savory sun,
to drink it with thick drops of goldenrod
and the bright spice of orange jewelweed
braided into the grassy, old canal.
You had to be there, listening, walking,
heart burning as you hear the catbird wheeze,
trying to catch the eye of flowers and the
green-leaf crowds singed by smokeless, gold fires,
and soft-smelling worship—purple and white.
I wish I was there again. Oh, had I
tipped a taste of it in a little cup
to sip from on dark, thin days! But the sip
cannot satisfy. To distill is to
destroy—the essence is in the excess.
A summary will not suffice—I must
be here, listening to what trees and old
words will tell me about why I was made,
to be ready for the high and perfect
leaf to fall bright at my feet to meet me.