The day is perfect!
The canyon is wall to wall applause:
Every pine needle is laughing
Whole bows bouncing,
Whole trees dancing;
Their mirth billowing upward in clouds of yellow confetti.
Celebration needs no justification,
But today is witness to a graduation.
The breeze is becoming a wind.
Hear it oscillating one to the other in an adolescence
unpredictable, but fluid;
more graceful than the voice of a boy
calling himself to manhood
through a larynx climbing backward,
in wrong-footed shoes
down a deepening throat.
Occasionally a pinecone breaks free,
Bouncing from branch to bow
amid this audience of lanky misfits
down to the thick-woven floor
And blending in,
Like the jettisoned mortar-board ,
Having made its last, high-hurtling statement,
Disappears among shiny shoes and robes.
They’ve gone quiet now.
Are my thoughts too loud?
Am I interrupting a speech?
I will let this conceit fall to my lap,
Just another name in the program celebrating
1000 names for the One Self.
Graduation is perpetual here.
What is there to say, really,
that isn’t said daily
in the ever flipping coins and blinking quarks of life and death,
And in the wind born again and again
and milling between the
Is and isn’t,
the standing and falling,
the logs now hollow and still clad in green.
It is always graduation day, here;
Though here are no teachers or students;
The contagion of becoming.
And the silence breathing,
sounding the notes behind every voice,
As the mountainside sings my Alma Mater.
(No Pomp; All Circumstance.)