Daniel Gunter 

Out of the Storm  

I sat for hours in the field, the kite
Aloft on the steady wind; the doubled line
Curved pale against the blue, then out of sight.
 
The unmown grass was soft and thick; the fine
Sweet air of May curled past. Some storm had blown
Itself beyond those fields, its only sign
 
The wind, the cloudless sky. I sat alone
Within that wind, beneath that storm-cleaned sky,
My hand alive to the breathing line. I’ve known
 
Since then some times as pure; some times when I
Have dreamed of things that seemed as sure and true
As the heavens on that day. If I could fly
 
That kite again, I’d let the wind undo
My wrongs; I’d let them ravel into blue.

The Little Eden

We found the snake curled careless on a trail
That crossed the railroad cut, beneath the trees.
No pitted head; no rattle on its tail:
 
Our minds recoiled with serpentine unease.
Though harmless, it was still the dreadful snake,
A thing to make the warmest marrow freeze.
 
We slyly trapped it in a can to take
It home: a trophy for manly boys to show.
We paused at times to give the can a shake
 
And view the writhing of our ancient foe,
The insinuations of its subtle skill.
My mother sneered, brought down her brutal hoe:
 
We watched it dying with a dying thrill.
The snake has always tempted us to kill.

A Green Man's Captive

Far in African jungles, a mindful spore
Drifts lazily on green and random air
And patient seeks an insect host. A pore
 
Suffices: it enters, and with subtle care
Begins its cureless surgery: to weave
Itself into the ant and make it bear
 
A double soul. The ant then learns to leave
Its toiling kind. A heavenly urge will bloom
Within its borrowed, burrowed heart. To grieve
 
Exceeds its earthly reach; it feels the loom
Of blue, ineluctable sky; it seeks to know
The sweet last nectar of its fruitful doom.
 
Our mother, in the cotton’s endless row,
Cast aside the landlord’s binding hoe.