James Crews is one of the poets that shows up weekly ish in my inbox. He has a form that I appreciate. Easy to take in. Easy to be inspired by. I like it when people write of simple things and then connect that to the not-so-simple of the human condition, interior and exterior, personal and universal.
James wrote Twilight Glory below. Recently. And, then moved by it, it stayed in my inbox for a while. Like I put it on the corner of my desk to be able to reach it easily. Which I’ve done several times.
Details for me…
“…toward the nearest inch of life…” — yup. For me, the cat. The tomatoes growing. The roses growing on the counter. The coffee to start the day.
“…emergency lurking around each new corner…” — yup, again. It’s quite exposing to acknowledge how often in this complex and many-layered subconscious that I create urgency. What is the comfort in that? That’s one of my recent inquiries with myself.
And, and.
Enjoy his poem(s).
Twilight Glory
James Crews
When wonder feels impossible,
I know I’m meant to turn toward
the nearest inch of life—the small
body of a rabbit, for instance,
resting in the grass at twilight,
ears perked for the quick footfall
of any danger. How often have I lived
like that, emergency lurking around
each new corner, fear stalking me
even on an evening walk in summer?
Tonight, I stop in the middle
of the road when I notice the waning
light pouring through the delicate
red skin of the rabbit’s ear, the way
sun illuminates a piece of stained-glass
from behind as well as from within.
