The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky…
In Sappho, the spaces name nothing — but the emptiness still speaks.
Giuseppe, a simple shoe-maker,
who never learned English, stood
banging his head against the wall,
cursing God in his native tongue
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.
The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
Where gulls scavenge and float above the arcade,
Where waves break against the risings and pilings,
And the ring-toss winner sets off the dinging bell
And the girl laughs as the boy hands her a souvenir
little oily sardines to lay on saltines
which he would make disappear
into the smile under his moustache
Nature is the master here: boundless, unpredictable,
full of astonishments. The children come next. I follow.
Back then, the new growth on redwoods was the brightest
green and tasted of citrus, a good vitamin source if you were lost
in the woods, which I wasn’t, I was pure found girl skipping…