VISION ON THE HILLS That full view of the world seen as a child, barely understood, a flight of half-remembered doves and red leaves in violent rustle from the wind that followed. Stone walls climbed the hilltops through thunder and sleeting rain, entering the mist that drew me on paths where every stone stood single, opening like eyes to other worlds, the black-faced sheep snaking out of moss and the stone-barns buttressed by old stones and an older time to which I knew, by seeing this, by seeing now, belong to me as I to them, welded by the heat of full attention sustained by time, held up for all by youth too caught in the ordinary miracle to worry what was past and what was present, or beyond it whether the bright vision itself could fade. It could, it did. It seems we slide down the long curve of years falling through time until we wake or dream like this: the window open to find us, brazen miracle, momentary fresh, before we lose our faith again. Almost desperate, searching through the crowded years, we meet ourselves a final time, try to touch him, hold him by the shoulders, teach us how to see again. Our hands climb bewildered to our eyes, too late we see everything, we ask everything. Who lost that vision? Who? Who lost that vision? - from River Flow: New & Selected Poems
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I liked this one! Made me want to connect with the boy within and put him on my shoulders so that he could see the world. So I did. ;)
Beautiful!