Cleaving Above
Upon the smaller island even there
A skylark lives and sings. It lives and sings
And rises to the highest heights through air.
The rapture of the lark swells up and springs
To levitate so far above the farm
And farmer that his drudging is transformed
A moment as eternity. The charm,
Not from a wand but wings and throat, is stormed
Around the air, and sky, ploughman’s rows
In tiniest of notes, roulades, and spills
Of melismata utterly in throes
Of passion. Where the farmer’s sharp blade tills,
The sharper cutting through the heavens and breeze
By birdsong leaves the slicing world at ease.
~ Phillip Whidden
Microscopic Nearly
The three, the island, lark, and farmer ride
In smallness in the scene. The island set
Within the ocean and constricting tide
Is nearly lost in blue. A constant threat
Surrounds it, swelling, ebbing ever, though
It shores survive for eons. The man, next
In smallness, works his plot through slower flow
Of seasons larger than himself. Though vexed
By small catastrophes, he works right through
Them. Tiniest of all, the skylark sings
Between the sea and even vaster blue
Of heaven, pitting speck-like self in zings
Of song bravura up against the sky.
Minute their tripled message is, “Defy.”
~ Phillip Whidden