The brook gives me
sparkles plenty, an
abundance, but asks
nothing of me:
snow thickets
and scrawny
snowwork of hedgerows,
still gold weeds, and
snow-bent cedar gatherings
provide
feasts of disposition
(figure, color, weight, proportion)
and require
nothing of me,
not even that I notice: the near-winter
quartermoon
sliding high almost
into color at four-thirty
the abundance of clarity
along the rose ridge line!
alone, I’m not alone:
a standoffishness and reasonableness
in things finds
me or I find that
in them: sand, fall,
furrow, bluff
things one, speaking things
not words, would
have found to say.
Strolls
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