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Poetry: Natural History


There is miracle in this:  that each year
ends with purpose.  After drift and
random daytimes, December draws together
all the cycles, and redirects our energies
into displays of a more definite meaning.

See:  the jostle of shelves and streets,
swirling reflections one of another,
colours surreal and celebratory of
every conceivable choice, spun out
in lunatic luxury;  boxes and buyers,
business and busyness, ebullient images
one of the other;  sidewalks and
store displays, cheerful and chattering;
everywhere everything singing and
hurrying, crepe paper crackling,
shopping bags crumpling, queued shoppers
balancing parcels and purchases, choices
of luxuries from counters celebratory,
from shelves full of busyness,
chooser and chosen fitting reflections
one of the other;  reflections of fitting
one to the other, shopping bags blithering
carols and crepe.

               And, yet, there is
miracle, in that we call these goods, miracle
in the yearend goodness of purpose, in
the myriad goods and hurrying multitude,
in the choice, the fitting, and the reflection:
there is miracle in this,      and wonder.

For Gilbert Williams, extraordinary teacher, extraordinary man.
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