Another Life

There might be the quibble of birds and the swag Of a river and a distantly belled Altar of animals, softly spoken; Certainly cattail, sumac, and fern Would rise from the marshes nearby, revealed In forms too perfect to envy trees— Not trying for larger and larger keepsakes. Cryptic and subtle green, hedgerows Hiding mysterious deer, the start Of a rabbit, as if towers and clouds Had suddenly shadowed an open field— These would be the events of the day, Life having narrowed down to please Natural hungers and thirsts, the grass Thick at our feet, and, above our heads, The stars, their fireworks anemones. What shall I say of the house? Or you? Only industrious ghosts would know How lazily cropping up the view Would make the impossible possible; Nothing but weekdays would blankly graze On time’s oblivious pastures, free At last of motive and thought, and we, Becoming ourselves so naturally, Would never say, looking up at the sky, Another life is shining in the sky.