From the 2 Train Journals: Transcendant Transfer

pellucid, an almost
holy gray-and-gold light
illuminates this landscape,
tawny with teasel and reed, and
backed up against that
distant, homesick gray
the trees spell their branch-sentences
in letters that,
though i would linger here for hours reading,
i could not transcribe the first word thereof.
i tell my friends, transferred from the tropics
where Spanish is spoken,
"it transcends human experience,"
feeling doubly locked by clumsy English . . .
if i can't even phrase it in my mother tongue,
how can i hope to dance in their fluid language
well enough to make it known?
for what prupose was this gift given?
why was such a treasure placed
in such a broken vessel?
perhaps it is
the flaws in me
that allow some of that transcendancy
flow through, untainted
by my tawdry identity . . .
and perhaps,
that is the definition
of poetry.