On the Rocks Looking Out Over Spaulding Island
(For James Wright)
There is no bronze butterfly
This early in the Spring.
Down on the rocks -
No distant cowbell,
No mournful lowing.
As I listen, aged novitiate,
The ceaseless prayer of the ocean
Hushes and sighs in murmured oblation,
Bone and stone and all the world erasing -
As the unwanted thought arrives unwelcome:
Have I wasted my life?
A forlorn cry distracts.
There suspended under the blue vault
Over Spaulding Island,
An osprey is dancing in the sky.
The fish in his talons
A splinter of light
Shedding brightness as he rises.
I watch him for what must be hours -
Until he and the sun and me
Are all dissolved in darkness.
And I know this much for certain:
This time, at least,
This time was not wasted.
