When The Sky Speaks Poem by Patrick White

When the sky speaks
it's stars sun moon
but when it sings
its voice is full of birds.
This morning I saw
two white tulips
hovering above the grape hyacinth
like angels that could still feel
where the moon left
cool wet kisses on their skin.
And cosmic events
are going on in the grass
that make the galaxies shudder
with unimaginable significance.
The trees have fingerprints
but no one takes them.
And every ant
is a prophet to all the others
as everyone follows everyone else
to the nectar and honey.
I watched them issue
from the tiny caldera
of their sandy volcanoes like lava
trying not to crush them accidentally
and stood in amazement
like a dumbfounded god
as they made the world.
And I asked myself
for all I have written
for all I have painted
what have I ever done in my life
that was comparable to that.
And the crows cawed
and the squirrels chattered angrily
flicking their tails like the horse-tailed hossu
of an old Zen master
trying to keep the flies away.
The point is there's no point to get.
The period begins the sentence.
And it's a foolish distinction
that honours its ends
in a world full of beginnings.
Look at the sun.
Look at the moon.
Look at the crazy flowers.
They're all rank amateurs.
There's a play.
But no rehearsal.
The stage is new every morning
but no one blows a line.
Everything expresses itself completely
right on time.
Everyone is the grail
of what they're looking for
like a grapevine looking for wine.