[from James Richardson's Interglacial, this poem from his book Second Guesses, 1984]
As One Might Have Said
May, and O might,
updraft and spin of blossom, can
all our furl, human,
untwist for this ridiculous
rose-must and white—in love with trees?
What evolutions
crossed here—did ur-man
blow through cleft trunks,
that throw and wind-fear of his loins
cached now in his genes, so we
in the dazzle and torque of petals
say, say against
ourselves, I have walked in the churning
heart of a god?
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