Friday, April 23, 2010

Matins by Louise Glück

The sun shines; by the mailbox, leaves of the divided birch tree folded, pleated like fins.
Underneath, hollow stems of the white daffodils,
       Ice Wings, Cantatrice; dark
leaves of the wild violet. Noah says
depressives hate the spring, imbalance
between the inner and the outer world. I make
another case­­­—being depressed, yes, but in a sense passionately
attached to the living tree, my body
actually curled in the split trunk, almost at peace,
        in the evening rain
almost able to feel
sap frothing and rising: Noah says this is
an error of depressives, identifying
with a tree, whereas the happy heart
wanders the garden like a falling leaf, a figure for
the part, not the whole.

1 comment:

lordpook said...

I like this. The difference between someone who identifies with everything, takes in everything, and someone who floats about as an individual aware of their role. Is it a coincidence this person is named Noah?