Tones

The stones here speak in tones
too ancient to perceive.
Let us say things happen. When it rains,
its rhythmless percussion,
whispers sometimes fall
from skies dreams cannot climb.
And I imagine the light
the clouds shed as snow: this winter,
the mountains shall swallow the sun,
and come spring, the thaw
shall pour molten sunbeams.
And things still happen.
When it rains, I shall run driven
by a wordless calling:
and the mathematics of this fever
in motion shall be no burden
to the wings at my heels….
Too, I imagine time
as one endless silver wheel,
and even a galaxy in rhythm with
the pulse of God, in its huge, yawning arc,
holds but a single fate. Things
always happening. The rain stops,
and light flutters in, the timelessness
fleeter than thought: and of that
which is in us (for we are mixed
of above and below),
I say, one side you have heard,
but now the other: as time turned
from now to now,
from light we were made,
and to light we shall return.
And it will happen everywhere.