He tilled the stars in the dull heaven
of the soil, stars of white pearl
with green at the tip. It made him dizzy
to glance up at that other garden.
As he walked beside the rows
searching for what had appeared overnight
he wanted to prophesy. There, right there,
a new nodule, a new comet’s tail, a root
of heaven. The sky itself so heavy
he felt it about to fall on his shoulders,
felt how it lowered over his life.
He needed a plow long enough, sharp enough
to cut it to tatters so he could seed
the low slivers of cloud, long rows
of watery blue. He could bring
these heavens together, raising one,
pulling the other down.
From: https://artfuldodge.spaces.wooster.edu/poets-as-translators/mary-crow/poems/
Date: 1991
By: Mary Crow (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 
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