Height of Spring

I’ve lost myself
Under the leafy boughs
Of the hundred-year-old oak.
The musky smell of earth,
Like an extravagant perfume,
Draws me to worshipful contemplation.

The tree trunk says
Brace your back on me.
I will hold you up
As you read your
Austen or Becquer or T.S. Eliot
Or quietly meditate.

The liquid azure heavens
Say drink of me—
Drink of the eternal
That lies just beyond
What your ears and eyes and fingers
Know as true.

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