I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
Wasn’t it beneath this spot the son of Kronos
pursued his inamorata, holding out a handful
of shining seeds?
He tears off summer’s dress,
exposes trunk and limb, threatens
worse coming. Yet he brings gifts…
Hands in my pockets, the salt on the streets,
the yellowing aura that means you are here
by my side again, waking me in dread
with no buffer or bounce. It’s been ten years.
The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure They are only foolish artificial things! Can a bird ever tire of having wings? And I, so long as life and … Continue reading
I have to say something about the blue grasses by the side of the road, the red rock rising behind them, a lacy kind of scrub juniper, yellow-green in afternoon … Continue reading
The fawn was lost, it seemed to me, stumbling through the foggy field and disappearing. I went after it, not knowing why, thought I might help somehow. Wanted to hold … Continue reading