In middle age and in a wild wood wandering—
Where are the beasts fantastical and ghostly guides
To shepherd me through cosmic realms toward perfect Love?
No angel messengers have (yet) conversed with me,
Nor have I swooned in St. Therese-like ecstasy
While visionary darts are plunged into my heart.
And perfect Love—what is it? Crystalline?
A mountaintop lost in a high Platonic haze?
And where—in El Dorado? Fair Atlantis lost?
Or is it doing? being? Love’s only in the loving
And not some pilgrim’s idol, gilt and candle-girt.
So holding out my hand, I touch the whole world’s needs,
Such rare and brilliant flowers paired with rankest weeds!
I slowly feel along the Braille-bark boles of trees;
In shafts of sunlight, watch a leaf twirl in the breeze.
- - Patrick Mizelle