LIKE THE HIDDEN MOUNTAIN
COLUMBINE
Is the soul solid
like iron?
Or is it tender and
breakable, like
the wings of a moth
in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a
chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a
departed river,
or silk soothing the
thighs
of an ancient dancer
before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals
clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s
return . . . .
Or is it timorous and
shy,
the notorious violet
withdrawn
or the hidden mountain
columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering
abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with
its sheen,
or does it come creeping
out at candlelight
furtively searching for
the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak
diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.