In winter I can see Orion through my window
There in the southwest sky before dawn
He stands above Mrs. Finn’s great oak
His hounds knee deep in the naked, reaching fingers of the tree
The ancients saw the sky as a mystery
To them it held portents, they saw combinations of stars
As held together, like the parts of a body
And imagined the work and the persons of gods and titans
All governing the affairs of men
God’s poet wrote this:
“The heavens declare the glory of God
And the firmament sheweth His handiwork”
But what about Mrs. Finn’s oak tree?
In this frame of mine, in this hour of dark drama
Of silent, ubiquitous speech
The psalmist said of the stars:
“Day unto day uttereth speech
And night unto night sheweth knowledge
There is no speech or language
Where their voice is not heard”
What about Mrs. Finn’s tree
On which the giant, bright hunter now strides?
Is the earth now connected to the cosmic drama?
To the unknowable; those things that have astonished men
And set them dreaming?
Isaiah told that the trees shall clap their hands
And Paul that all of creation groans
With the hope of a new world