A South Wind
Short grass, electric green,
the ground
soggy from winter rain, Chaucerian
eyes of day, minute petals
rose-tented,
nourished by droppings of ducks and geese.
Hold fast what
seems ephemera -
plain details that rise clear
beyond the fogs of
half-thoughts,
that rustling static, empty of metaphor.
Nothing much, or
everything; all depends
on how you regard it.
On if you
regard it.
Note the chalk -
yellow of hazel catkins, how in
the wet
mild wind they swing toward spring.
~ Denise Levertov
~
(Sands of the
Well)
