Tuesday, March 1, 1983


      —For Daphne

Jonquils nod their heads toward the sun.
Shadows of trees claw at the edges of the meadow
 as winter sun pushes westward.

Like a river, the wind lifts me
and enters with greedy licks:
The only thing real. I am coming through the tall grass.

The wind carries me to the orchard.
and I sit astride a fallen tree covered with moss—
warm, yielding, like flesh.

Like the wind, the tree quickens
comes, and I fill the trees.
I am coming, through the tall grass.

The tree shudders & divides.
Embedded in the heartwood,
smooth as- silk, an embryonic apple
beats a slow rhythm.

The wind comes through the tall grass.

3/83 Forest Knolls