Ode To Heathens

Ode to Heathens For Bob Atkinson Tree bark never minds that it is not smooth, or is peeling, or bears the scars of two stranger’s names; It stands against the wind and lifts its leaves to the light. Trees never fret that their limbs are not set straight; they flower; they fruit; they invite the nest, and give rest to weary birds, and aren’t their twisting branches singing? Wildflowers are still g ay and bright though the caterpillar has left some grateful holes in the leaves and petals. The bees still come; this is where honey comes from. They still enjoy the wind, the rain, no roof to block the stars. They still have their roots, not prettied and removed, gathered in the wells of crystal coffins. Have you ever seen the ground glitter with scattered crystals brought fresh from the mine, uncut, unpolished, unset, that make the sun laughing-shatter and sparkle on the ground with joy? What then if a poet reaches for the light with twisting lines? All these heathen things, where do you think art comes from?