Some of the Philosophers
can't use it
can't count it
so refuse it, this —
the inexhaustible, bountiful,
elusive
spring of the absurd,
brooding over the dark abyss
wing,
the word.
Self
You cannot measure the circumference
but there are centerpoints:
stones, and a woman washing at a ford,
the water runs red-brown from what she washes.
The mouths of caves. The mouths of bells.
The sky in winter under snowclouds
to northward, green of jade.
No star is farther from it than the glint
of mica in a pebble in the hand,
or nearer. Distance is my god.
Slick Rock Creek, September
My skin
touches the wind
A lacewing fly touches my hand
I speak too slow
for her to understand
Rock's warm under my hand.
It speaks too slow
for me to understand
I drink sunlit water.
Flight 1067 to L.A.
Snowy sierra sawteeth
lift to leftward
as I drink white wine staidly
above the Great Valley in the belly
of a silvery psuedocetacean
sailing the airsea to a palmy city.
I am my ancestors' sci-fi.
Waking in April
Drifting on the birdsong river
between no light and light
and the sleep of man and a cat,
I wear the soft old shirt
my mother made me seventy years ago,
nightshirt, dayshirt,
winter coat, wedding gown.
I wonder, as it wears away to rags
and gauze, will there be a mirror
to see the naked soul in,
or only an unraveling of shadow
as the day widens
and things grow clearer.
______________________
Ursula K. Le Guin
A Larger Reality
Winter Texts, 2025
