The Rapture

All summer I wandered the fields that were thickening every morning, every rainfall, with weeds and blossoms, with the long loops of the shimmering, and the extravagant- pale as flames they rose and fell back, replete and beautiful- that was all there was- and I too once or twice, at least, felt myself rising, my boots touching suddenly the tops of the weeds, the blue and silky air- listen, passion did it, called me forth, addled me, stripped me clean then covered me with the cloth of happiness- I think there is no other prize, only rapture the gleaming, rapture the illogical the weightless- whether it be for the perfect shapeliness of something you love- like an old German song- or of someone- or the dark floss of the earth itself, heavy and electric. At the edge of sweet sanity open such wild, blind wings.