Mythological Present

Now comes the porpoise from the sea,
now comes the falcon over the desert;
now comes the first grade teacher
with her purple hair
and the old wooden baseball I found
while digging a hole for a little box
filled with various treasures:
keys to unknown locks
another model of the Earth
several coins from Mexico
with the eagle
the snake and the cactus
held in a very small pouch
made from the skin of a sheep
who lived on a farm in Nebraska
who felt the sun and his power
who felt hunger and peace and fear
whose father had horns that were magic;
and a bracelet made of silver
mined in Wyoming
by some men from China.
What else?
I can't remember.

You did not give me light enough
to see into the depths,
you did not show me all the colors
or teach me how to fly.
But you gave me freedom,
you gave me space,
and you even gave me wings.
Perhaps you knew what you were doing
when you left me there alone
among the rocks and trees,
alone with a thousand questions,
alone with a thousand dreams,
and nothing ahead but a story
waiting to be told.

I played some songs
that are part of the picture,
because of their sadness
or because of their grandeur.
I ate a fish
that may have been a cousin
many years ago,
before time,
what does it matter?
Everything has eyes,
that is the message.
All can see or can be seen.
Everything becomes alive
when it enters the tapestry
noticed and named
remembered for its hue
or its form,
remembered for its patience
or the noise it makes,
which may have signaled
the start of Creation,
when the deeds of heroes
and the endless hordes
of sacrificial beings
were only particles together,
leaning on eachother
in a darkness that was only desire,
unknown to itself,
so mighty. Unimaginable.

Then came the shadows of the gods,
real people
who knew what time it was.
Look for the one who defies gravity.
Look for the one whose feathers,
growing from the head
or any other part of the body,
do not constitute a hoax.
Look for the potted plant
in the lower lefthand corner.
Look at the face of the parent.
Look at the pile of bones
that were not yours
but belonged to something else
that by its gentleness and beauty,
by its natural agility,
its allseeing eyes,
its real knowledge
and selfpossession,
came to be also
a part of the story.