Sleeping In The Forest
I thought the earth remembered me, She took me back so tenderly, Arranging her dark skirts, her pockets Full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
Some Things The World Gave
1 Times in the morning early When it rained and the long gray Buildings came forward from darkness Offering their windows for light. 2 Evenings out there on the plains When sunset donated farms
Sand Dabs, Five
What men build, in the name of security, is built of straw. * Does the grain of sand know it is a grain of sand? * My dog Ben a mouth like a tabernacle.
Morning Glories
Blue and dark-blue rose and deepest rose white and pink they Are everywhere in the diligent cornfield rising and swaying in their reliable Finery in the little fling of their bodies their gear and
Toward The Space Age
We must begin to catch hold of everything Around us, for nobody knows what we May need. We have to carry along The air, even; and the weight we once Thought a burden turns
A Visitor
My father, for example, Who was young once And blue-eyed, Returns On the darkest of nights To the porch and knocks Wildly at the door, And if I answer I must be prepared For
Gannets
I am watching the white gannets Blaze down into the water With the power of blunt spears And a stunning accuracy Even though the sea is riled and boiling And gray with fog And
Next Time
Next time what I’d do is look at The earth before saying anything. I’d stop Just before going into a house And be an emperor for a minute And listen better to the wind
The Kingfisher
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave Like a blue flower, in his beak He carries a silver leaf. I think this is The prettiest world so long as you don’t mind A
At Blackwater Pond
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled After a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink A long time. It tastes Like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold Into my
Walking To Oak-Head Pond, And Thinking Of The Ponds I Will Visit In The Next Days And Weeks
What is so utterly invisible As tomorrow? Not love, Not the wind, Not the inside of a stone. Not anything. And yet, how often I’m fooled I’m wading along In the sunlight And I’m
Sunrise
You can Die for it- An idea, Or the world. People Have done so, Brilliantly, Letting Their small bodies be bound To the stake, Creating An unforgettable Fury of light. But This morning, Climbing
The Buddha's Last Instruction
“Make of yourself a light” Said the Buddha, Before he died. I think of this every morning As the east begins To tear off its many clouds Of darkness, to send up the first
Knife
Something Just now Moved through my heart Like the thinnest of blades As that red-tail pumped Once with its great wings And flew above the gray, cracked Rock wall. It wasn’t About the bird,
The Summer Day
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean The one who has flung herself out of the grass, The one who is