Even at night I go out with a light and look
at the growing. I kneel and look at one thing
at a time. A white spider on a peony bud.

Beyond the mountain is a meadow with iris.
The shade of the firs determines the measure
of their color. Violet so pale the purple

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

The tenderness in music
brings back moments I've shared
with some who are as I am,

out to make

one bird high

above spiralling

Cragflower. Music of the sea.
         The flower still standing
in its tormented place.

All Saints’ over, the roast seeds eaten, I set
On a backporch post our sculpted pumpkin under the weather,
Warm still for November. Night and day it gapes

You could feel a passion for invisibility: to be a fly on the wall,
the pitcher's ear, the child in the corner
with his eyes closed: you could grow fat on that, full of years.

     I can feel each cloud as a thing
and seem to touch its turrets and to think
           the great curve of its birth

The river ripples in the sun
women and men come and are gone