I go to it as Adam, singing across paradise.

                                 — Jack Gilbert, Angelus

 

I’m eastbound, west of Syracuse.

        A pastoral expanse of farmsteads and forests.

                Fieldbloom and rain.

 

Lightfall and shadowfall over tributaries

        of the Seneca River. The taste of a lush

                and wild earth sensually alive in the wind.

 

Something at the edge of perception

         retains the summer musk of jasmine and honeysuckle,

                 telling us the world may yet be consolable.

 

An orchard stands easy with late apples.

        Low roads that flank the highway hold the focused stillness

                of a deep-breathing sleeper.

 

I cross isles of small towns I could love

        in the damp autumn dusk, a stranger less distant

                to himself for all that silence can bring me.