Something that soars to lift us up and give us wings for words:
What lifts the heron leaning on the air
I praise without a name.
A crouch, a flare, a long stroke through the cumulus of trees,
a shaped thought at the sky — then gone.
O rare! Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees,
would have cried Father! Cry anything you please
But praise. By any name or none. But praise the white
original burst that lights the heron on his
two soft kissing kites.
When saints praise heaven lit by doves and rays,
I sit by pond scums till the air recites Its heron back.
And doubt all else. But praise.
John Ciardi, from the poem The White Heron
“Two soft kissing kites” — what a beautiful image. Write on!