1630 Nature poems

it is hallelujah time, the swallows tracing an arc of praise just off our balcony, the mountains snow-sparkling in gratitude. Here is our real life — a handful of possible peonies from the market — the life we always intended, swallow life threading the city air with our weaving joy. Are we this simple, then, to sing all day — country songs, old hymns, camp tunes? We even believe the swallows, keeping time.

where the fish had withdrawn her house emerged contours each jagged water crossed morning with required hours shadows empty the chimneys Europe stood between

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey And short the season, first rubythroat in the fading lilacs, alyssum in bloom, a honeybee bumbling in the bleeding heart on my gelding’s grave while beetles swarm him underground. Wet feet, wet cuffs, little flecks of buttercup on my sneaker toes, bluets, violets crowding out the tufts of rich new grass the horses nose and nibble like sleepwalkers held fast— brittle beauty—might this be the last?

Whether anger quickens a lagging stride, and periodic burn-offs in the forest revitalize exhausted soil and flora—. Whether we should take pleasure in the wildcat jubilation of a lightning bolt that whips its silver vein of genesis through the night sky, flash-photo of a white birch upended, the root-system buckled to swollen thunderheads—. And whether naming an offense amounts to sour grapes and common bitterness, or even the conceited nonsense of unwashed yahoo multitudes, a yawping insult to civilized behavior—. Whether a July rainstorm, even when it drenches the unprepared pedestrian and befuddles traffic, might be extravagant, a joy, like the whoops and escalating bop glissandos of Gillespie’s upraised horn, cascading pitches a countersong to meteoric chalk marks Perseids burn across the House of Leo—. And whether peaceful ecstasy might float up from a fifteen-second avalanche reflected in the skier’s goggles, his jacket a spark of scarlet on the topmost slope, waiting for the homeward track to clear.

as the meat within the shell as the shell before the caw a bleached weed a fig dusted to sweet the skin egg albumen of peacock butterfly held to the ivory of oxen hoof pulling the space between sins                    I am as I am so the host                             on the tongue God of Bread complexion of conquest the salt of Lot as God is a crown of thorn diadem of wheat so am I the echo calling fossil back to name amaranth ash                    spread across the light

while the black oak takes coaxing. That popping and whistling? Yellow birch and red pine. Difference might for now define, but soon the whole church is chanting at the same time, flame splashing bright from the dirty bucket of the earthly, roaring likeness and only likeness into the bottomless cool of the night . . .

Arborvitae It rises in a Champaign County bog Amid bedstraw and skunk cabbage, Rises out there in an ice age River valley gorged with glacial till, And swills the moraine-filtered rainwater With the wafer ash and honeysuckle. Stalwart, set apart, and biblical — As if one of that ancient company That gave its coniferous canonical body To the tent that shuttled God Through the wilderness. • They say that cedar and cypress Are the protectors of  bones. You see them from the freeway, standing alone, Statuesque and serious, In the dead middle of and vigilant In beanfields, where farmers used to plant Their families. • Who are you like in your greatness? Consider a cedar of Lebanon, with fair boughs And forest shade, and of great height, Its top among the clouds.

In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees where the wind-bird with its white eyes shoves and pushes among the branches. Like any of us he wants to go to sleep, but he's restless— he has an idea, and slowly it unfolds from under his beating wings as long as he stays awake. But his big, round music, after all, is too breathy to last. So, it's over. In the pine-crown he makes his nest, he's done all he can. I don't know the name of this bird, I only imagine his glittering beak tucked in a white wing while the clouds— which he has summoned from the north— which he has taught to be mild, and silent— thicken, and begin to fall into the world below like stars, or the feathers of some unimaginable bird that loves us, that is asleep now, and silent— that has turned itself into snow.

Prone on the northern water, That laps him about the breast, Like the Sphinx in the sand, forever The giant lies in rest. The sails drive swift before him, And the surf beats at his lip, But the gray eyes look out seaward Noting nor wave nor ship. The centuries drift over, He marks not with smile nor frown, Drift over him cloud and sea-gull, Swallow and thistledown. I, of the race that passes, Quick with its hope and its fear, Lean on his brow and question, Plead at his senseless ear: “What of thy past unmeasured? And what of the peoples gone? What of the sea’s first singing? What of the primal dawn? “What was the weird that bowed thee? How did the struggle cease? Out of what Titan anguish Issued thy hopeless peace?” Nothing the pale lips utter, What hath been, nor what shall be; Under the brow’s stern shadow, The gray eyes look to sea. The blue glows round and over, Thin-veiled, as it were God’s face; I feel the breath, the spirit, That knows nor time nor space. And my heart grieves for the giant In his pitiful repose, Mocked by the vagrant gladness Of a laggard brier-rose; Mocked to his face from seaward By the flash and whirl of wings; Mocked from the grass above him, By life that creeps and sings. I care not for his wisdom, His secret unconfessed; I yearn toward rose and cricket, Ephemeral and blest. Ah! if he might, how would he Quicken to love and to tears; For my immortal minute Barter his endless years! He rests on the restless water, And I on the grasses brown, Drift over us cloud and sea-gull, Swallow and thistledown.

The white train emerges from a dark curtain of tall fir trees with its coat of light snow. The white train appears as though newly escaped from the jaws of night. The white train steams out of the forest into the clear white meadow, melting the fresh snow around it. The trees are towering. Ancient giants. A whole section seems to have been logged. Over there the folded arms of soldiers who gather in small groups. We cannot see leaders or individual faces. Horsemen far away. On their way to the revolution perhaps. In the dining car, behind the velvet curtains— blood puddings and sea pie, clear soups and small marrow. Already today the chef has cooked three luncheons while crossing Poland; the starched waiters managed without spilling a drop. Dozens of dirty white napkins heap on hampers like miniature Alps threatening to fall. But now the train has braked and stopped. Small boys fog the windows with their warm breath as they watch the soldiers with silver sabers who order everyone off the train, into the new snow.