The Road Grows Wet With Light

I have only recently come across the poetry of Brigit Pegeen Kelly (  1951-2016) who died when she was only 65. Her poems blend weird and disturbing mythic images with stunning evocations of human emotion and experience.   Here is one of them, called "Visitation."  I am not sure what it's about, but I really like it:




Visitation               by Brigit Pegeen Kelly


God sends his tasks
and one does
them or not, but the sky
delivers its gifts
at the appointed
times: With spit and sigh,
with that improbable
burst of flame, the balloon
comes over
the cornfield, bringing
another country
with it, bringing
from a long way off
those colors that are at first
the low sound
of a horn, but soon
are many horns, and clocks,
and bells, and clappers
and your heart
rising to the silence
in all of them, a silence
so complete that
the heads of the corn
bow back before it
and the dog flees in terror
down the road
and you alone are left
gazing up
at three solemn visitors
swinging
in a golden cage
beneath that unbelievable chorus of red
and white, swinging
so close you cannot move
or speak, so close
the road grows wet with light,
as when the sun flares,
after an evening storm
and you become weightless, falling
back in the air
before the giant oak
that with a fiery burst
the balloon
just clears.