There Is No Wilderness

there is no wilderness
in which he will not write
of running streams
or label the stars in jars
and set them on shelves
for future, for tender, reference
counting the opaline his;
every instant, an amethyst.

you will say, perhaps,
why must he sieve the snows;
does he really need that many starfish?
or to carry the roses from Here to There
in a rundown workshop
all chimney smoke
and no wood...
to an infinite garden?
if he only could.

beware of him the mothers cry
clutching their infants close.
he comes from the tribe of wishes
shining into no mirror at all
and crystal pendants
on foreign chandeliers;
year on year,
gathering prisms like moss;
and into the great concertos
that have not yet arrived
he will dodge as into thickets.

why is he alive
at such a cost, contradiction
of being lost and labyrinthine too
pressing the words down carefully
into the Spring mud
as if they would fly away:
the scudding clouds.

and growing stranger day by day
radiant and painting the sun
in an unequal contest;
developing the film all night
ah he is armor bright,
inured to all affliction
so that tomorrow,
the contract with dawn
may be renewed.

mary angela douglas 26 may 2019