If the dawn that plays on the waves of a lake

If the dawn that plays on the waves of a lake,
if the sway of a bough in a cedar-scented breeze,
if bullfrogs and fireflies and the rosy maple moth,
all seem trivial in the violence toward extremes;

if the poetry of roses no longer satisfies,
if the movements of art and song no longer meet
the hunger for meaning (or evasion), then let us release them
to the chilling weight of the moment,
and let it snow, let it deepen, let it blot out
the death-driven spirits of dominion.

Dear Mr. Ginsberg we need your Howl,
Dear Robert Bly we need your faith, your fire, your scowl,
Dear Ms. Levertov, we need your lamp-lit soul —
     a light to our feet.

And walk us through the darkness
     to the oasis of silence and reflection,
          lake of mystery,
full of uncatchable fish — see
               them leaping at the joy of adoption.

Dear stranger at the empty tomb,
lend me your garden trowel, for I have sewn
my rows of conditional love, but have neglected
to plant the only miracle that matters:
perpetual compassion and love for all others.