Something

Something buzzes 
in the corridors of old trees 
It whispers in the leaves and it breathes. 
It breathes behind my breath. 
It hides between stars and meadow birds.  
 
An orange cloud shone on the brook  
and a storm of barley chaff blew 
over three heavens of grass. And because of this 
my heart grew bigger. 
 
My stomach quivered in sync with 
   light shakes of an ash tree. 
I saw cow parsley  
   bow to the breeze 
and there was that something again 
    in my hesitant step on 
a freshly built molehill: 
the roll of the ball of the foot 
the stretch of phalanges easing into 
   an airy festival of now. 

I tasted the blossomy air of hawthorn. 
It wrinkled my nose a little- 
    a kind of beautiful repulsion. 
Then I sniffed again, eager for more. 
There was that something again.

I heard it in the muted rattle of 
a hurrying moorhen. It clicked 
through a hedge and the hedge 
bristled in the wake of self-awareness 

In caverns in the air it swirls around,
    more here and less there. In 
chosen frames of grass, it languishes 
but just here and not there. That something.

That something.
        That refined experience of nothing 
and everything and the drum-beating heart of 
      love itself.