Who will remember the truth,
behind the way morning glories
devour fences and telephone poles,
is life hunger and the way it feels
to stretch out delicate green tendrils
and pour forth so much purple?
And who will remember the perfection,
that ten thousand wild geese,
screaming in a frost burned meadow
rise toward, is a warm birth and the joy
of singing through winter heavy air?
And who will remember the love,
which makes the sweat flow
clear and sweet down lovers’ backs,
is a fragile leaf unfolding,
gently toward light and holy rain?
And when the righteous
burn their vision across the earth
and silence it with their dreams of heaven,
Who will remember?