The Kookaburras
In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator. In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting To stride out of a cloud and lift its wings. The kookaburras, pressed
Picking Blueberries, Austerlitz, New York,1957
Once, in summer In the blueberries, I fell asleep, and woke When a deer stumbled against me. I guess She was so busy with her own happiness She had grown careless And was just
Skunk Cabbage
And now as the iron rinds over The ponds start dissolving, You come, dreaming of ferns and flowers And new leaves unfolding, Upon the brash Turnip-hearted skunk cabbage Slinging its bunches leaves up Through
At Great Pond
At Great Pond The sun, rising, Scrapes his orange breast On the thick pines, And down tumble A few orange feathers into The dark water. On the far shore A white bird is standing
Turtle
Now I see it It nudges with its bulldog head The slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble; And now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal Who is
Dogfish
Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing Kept flickering in with the tide And looking around. Black as a fisherman’s boot, With a white belly. If you asked for a picture I would have
Mushrooms
Mushrooms Rain, and then The cool pursed Lips of the wind Draw them Out of the ground – Red and yellow skulls Pummeling upward Through leaves, Through grasses, Through sand; astonishing In their suddenness,
Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine
Who doesn’t love Roses, and who Doesn’t love the lilies Of the black ponds Floating like flocks Of tiny swans, And of course, the flaming Trumpet vine Where the hummingbird comes Like a small
An Afternoon In The Stacks
Closing the book, I find I have left my head Inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open Their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, Words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Mindful
Every day I see or hear Something That more or less Kills me With delight, That leaves me Like a needle In the haystack Of light. It was what I was born for –
Moccasin Flowers
All my life, So far, I have loved More than one thing, Including the mossy hooves Of dreams, including’ The spongy litter Under the tall trees. In spring The moccasin flowers Reach for the
The Moths
There’s a kind of white moth, I don’t know What kind, that glimmers By mid-May In the forest, just As the pink mocassin flowers Are rising. If you notice anything, It leads you to