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
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