Mystery lies outside our ken
though we are kin to eagles, arctic terns,
Pacific grey whales, and swifts,
all of whom breed for the impossible.
In Killarney’s Ireland there’s a garden
where rhododendron grow castle-high,
scarlet breastworks, purple, palest pink,
lavendar, crimson, honor-bright white.
Yearly, in May and June, people come
to Muckross to stare, not to believe
heavy eyes which lift rhododendron,
but not by the thousand, not castle-high.
And as if that weren’t enough, not knowing
what swings Orion when the incense rises,
old priests stumble, young priests fumble
and acolytes stub their toes, thought rising,
thought falling deep-mired, knowing
the peaks of reason are not enough.
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