1630 Nature poems

A yellow leaf in the branches Of a shamel ash In the front yard; I see it, a yellow leaf Among so many. Nothing distinguishes it, Nothing striking, striped, stripped, Strident, nothing More than its yellow On this day, Which is enough, which makes me Think of it later in the day, Remember it in conversation With a friend, Though I do not mention it— A yellow leaf on a shamel ash On a clear day In an Arizona winter, A January like so many.

Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their hearts out Shelovesme Shelovesmenot Smeared against the sidewalk Urine left in the toilet all day simmers under halogens Listening to someone else breathe listening to static cling Time to wipe down the refrigerator with a handful of ibuprofen and a bandanna soaked in tonic water Butter-butter Black lemons Pine-Sol • Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their asses off Other yellow flowers I don’t see you yet Noon tears down the street a terrible kid on a brand-new Now I remember the faces of tulips Speechless Yellow peaches sweat inside brown paper bags Press your forehead against the pit in the perfect peach and everything will stop moving how about that? • Daffodils shimmy in the dilated onion grass their eyes closed Close your eyes I close my eyes Families of worms work their yellow way up through clouds in the mustard air Slams into the yard Pollen lies down on everything it just lies down sun the color of photosynthesis and that’s fine Birds bark inside houses Yellow fingers work the yellow spine

When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, The yellow violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the virgin air. Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould, And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them—but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright.

Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up, Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread, 'Tis scarcely deep enough a bee to drown, So it sings harmless o'er its pebbly bed —Ay here it is, stuck close beside the bank Beneath the bunch of grass that spindles rank Its husk seeds tall and high—'tis rudely planned Of bleachèd stubbles and the withered fare That last year's harvest left upon the land, Lined thinly with the horse's sable hair. Five eggs, pen-scribbled o'er with ink their shells Resembling writing scrawls which fancy reads As nature's poesy and pastoral spells— They are the yellowhammer's and she dwells Most poet-like where brooks and flowery weeds As sweet as Castaly to fancy seems And that old molehill like as Parnass' hill On which her partner haply sits and dreams O'er all her joys of song—so leave it still A happy home of sunshine, flowers and streams. Yet in the sweetest places cometh ill, A noisome weed that burthens every soil; For snakes are known with chill and deadly coil To watch such nests and seize the helpless young, And like as though the plague became a guest, Leaving a houseless home, a ruined nest— And mournful hath the little warblers sung When such like woes hath rent its little breast.

You'd think the sky would run out of water, but it won't; it just keeps coming down. I need someone to marvel at the breath escaping from me. Do you have a natural resource you prefer to exploit? Does someone think of you and turn the channel? How would you ever know? Have you ever zoned out during Downton Abbey? I'm certain of something I'd prefer not to tell you about. "Slow down," you say. But I can already see my breath, and its only October. Walking with you is making everything watery and spazzed out, like a movie about sex where I have sex and people are all like, "He's amazing, we really like his sex style!" But I digress. Will you please stand up when called upon to tell the audience how wonderful I was in my best moments; like someone in senior management delegating things and being sure of everything but how to stop? I promise I'll make this up to you. I'll write your name on the menu board, and people will come into the store all expectant of you.

They did the deed of darkness In their own mid-light. He plucked a gray field mouse Suddenly in the wind. The small dead fly alive Helplessly in his beak, His cold pride, helpless. All she receives is life. They are terrified. They touch. Life is too much. She flies away sorrowing. Sorrowing, she goes alone. Then her small falcon, gone. Will not rise here again. Smaller than she, he goes Claw beneath claw beneath Needles and leaning boughs, While she, the lovelier Of these brief differing two, Floats away sorrowing, Tall as my love for you, And almost lonelier. Delighted in the delighting, I love you in mid-air, I love myself the ground. The great wings sing nothing Lightly. Lightly fall.

for Pat Silliman XII A guide to the sky under full nondisclosure. Dawn in the bare birch trees, the sun, swollen, throbs over the horizon. Hotel buffet doodah. Two dogs dancing, sniffing one another’s genitalia. One can hear the electricity wired in the walls, water rushing through the pipes, the boards and joints of the old house groaning as they settle. Map of morning. Winter light. One’s experience of the transfer point air- port as that of the city itself. Dear winter, it’s 5:15 AM. Shoes for Mickey Mouse. Waste deep in the big muddy. The sound of rain around. The line (not visible) binds letters into words. People are drowning. Moon, broken in the middle. What a watch watches. Song of the single en- gine Cessna, threading the pre-dawn sky. One bird, one bird, many. Blades of grass brittle in the freeze. Spider’s corner of the bath room. One maple tree that will not return to life.

You with the knees of a fish, You with the fish's ears, the tongue in your round Mouth that's nibbling the sweet air, You with a fish's patience, on your side Under the hot plank ot the keel, hook in your lip, And your tail twitching like a bothered lily, And the taste of your own bleeding on the air, salt on the sweetness, You with a fish's voice, singing and still Your aria, and the blue-silver flecks of light, The water's scales, breathing the breeze Abundant and not for you, you with a hook, Absurd, you with lidless mercuried eyes; And the reel whistles, the tall man's cast at you.

It's a bug's world of intrigue and mystery, with humans a blip in their history. So when insects flitter and scurry past us Take note, because they may outlast us!

The water understands Civilization well; It wets my foot, but prettily, It chills my life, but wittily, It is not disconcerted, It is not broken-hearted: Well used, it decketh joy, Adorneth, doubleth joy: Ill used, it will destroy, In perfect time and measure With a face of golden pleasure Elegantly destroy.