A friend introduced me to the works of Jack Gilbert, a phenominal poet (imho) about 6 months ago.
Lately I find myself stealing away from obligations momentarily to find myself a quiet little spot to devour yet another one of his delicious poems.
A WALK BLOSSOMING
The spirit opens as life closes down.
Tries to frame the size of whatever God is.
Finds that dying makes us visible.
Realizes we must get to the loin of that
before time is over. The part of which
we are the wall around. Not the good or evil,
neither death or the afterlife but the importance
of what we contain meanwhile. (He walks along
remembering, biting into beauty,
the heart eating into the naked spirit.)
The body is a major nation, the mind a gift.
Together they define substantiality.
The spirit can know the Lord as a flavour
rather than power. The soul is ambitious
for what is invisible. Hungers for a sacrament
that is both spirit and flesh. And neither.