Thirst: Poems

For a long time
I was not even
In this world, yet
Every summer
Every rose
Opened in perfect sweetness
And lived
In gracious repose,
In its own exotic fragrance,
In its huge willingness to give
Something, from its small self,
To the entirely of the world.
I think of them, thousands upon thousands,
In many lands,
Whenever summer came to them,
Rising
Out of the patience of patience,
To leaf and bud and look up
Into the blue sky
Or, with thanks,
Into the rain
That would feed
Their thirsty roots
Latched into the earth-
Sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia,
What did it matter,
The answer was simply to rise
In joyfulness, all their days.
Have I found any better teaching?
Not ever, not yet.
Last week I say my first Botticelli
And almost fainted,
And if I could I would paint like that
But am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs
About roses: teachers, also, of the ways
Toward thanks, and praise.

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

Ribbon Snake in the Sun

I came upon him and he is
Startled; he glides
To the rock’s rim; he wheels, setting in motion
The stripes of his body, yet not going
Anywhere. And, though the books say
It can’t e done, since his eyes are set
Too far apart in the narrow skull, I’m not
Lying when I say that he lifts his face and looks
Into my eyes and I look back until
We are both staring hard
At each other. He wants to know
Just where in this bright, blue-faced world
He might be safe. He wants to go on with the
Flow of his life. Then he straightens
His shining back and drops
From the rocks and rockets through
The tangle of weeds, sliding, as he goes, over
My bare foot. Then it vanishes
Into the shade and the grass, down to
Some slubby stream, having
Startled me in return. But there is a
Small matter. What I would speak of, rather,
Is the weightless string of his actually soft and
Nervous body; the nameless stars of its eyes.

Walking Home from Oak-Head

There is something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness
of time.
Whenever I get home - whenever -

somebody loves me there.
Meanwhile
I stand in the same dark peace
as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly
like the still unhurried wind,
waiting,
as for a gift,

for the snow to begin
which it does
at first casually,
then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live -
in music, in words,
in the fires of the heart,
I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place,
this world,
which is falling apart now,
which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
our deepest prayers.
Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway
stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
my shoulders
covered with stars.

The Messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird — equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?

Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth

and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all,

over and over, how it is that we live forever.