Poet's Notebook: My poem, "Bright liberal, you are called" followed by comments

Bright liberal, you are called
 
You are called
to attend a wedding
at the bend in the river
where glacial melt
flows out of the mountain’s shadow
and quickens
before it leaps into space
transmuting
into valley water.
 
The minister is a
full-fledged shaman
whose eyes reflect the mountains
that protect his soul
from the likes of you.
 
Bright liberal,
you are called!
You obediently followed the river all the way
through the hills
and gorges,
against the current,
to this place of gathering.
 
You deserve a rest!
 
You are weary.
All your ideas are weary.
 
Your dreams
are a flock of birds
chattering in the sycamores
with all the flight gone from their wings
as if it were the end of the day,
but in truth it is still early!
 
Rest.
 
The bride’s dress,
river-washed,
is flapping in the breeze
against white peaks.
 
You, one seven-billionth
of the human race,
you, bright liberal,
are called
to witness this union.
 
You who have picked clean
the fruiting branch,
sanctioned the undoing of nature,
and are sorry for it at least,
now you,
who brought nothing to share,
will have to eat
whatever others bring.
 
You will dance the animal
at the wedding party.
You will dance the mountain!
You will step barefoot
in the aching river,
 
and if you trip and fall
because the wine made you clumsy,
and if the river embraces you,
to resounding laugher,
you will rise and laugh along with the party
because, while you were under the water,
you heard the heart-beat of the river
and it filled your heart with joy.
 
You are called
bright liberal.
 
The bride is your anima.
Her white dress is the clouds on the mountain
her white dress is the dogwood blossoms
by the waterfall
that are almost too bright to see.
You aren’t Dante in Paradise
dazzled by the light of heaven.
But, like Dante, you have
without realizing it
made it through Purgatory.

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