You Are the Ground

I was there with the first mythmakers and monks
who made up your stories, traced your runes.

But now I see you:
wind, woods, and water,
roaring at the rim of Christendom --
you, land,
to be left in darkness.

I want to utter you. I want to portray you
not with lapis or gold, but with colors made of apple 
bark.
There is no image I could invent
that your presence would not eclipse.

I want, then, simply
to say the names of things.
I'll leave aside kings and their lineages,
their deeds and battles.

For you are the ground.
The ages to you are only seasons.

from Rilke's Book of Hours

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