Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her poc
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone o

Meditation is old and honorable, s
not sit, every morning of my life,
looking into the shining world? Be
attended to, delight, as well as h
Can one be passionate about the ju

Needing one, I invented her—
the great-great-aunt dark as hicko
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.
Dear aunt, I’d call into the leav

In the early curtains
of the dusk
it flew,
a slow galloping
this way and that way

All winter the water
has crashed over
the cold the cold sand. Now
it breaks over the thin
branch of your body.

She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.
The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.
She leans her long neck and tongue

In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes

Don’t call this world adorable, or
It’s frisky, and a theater for mor
The eyelash of lightning is neithe
The struck tree burns like a pilla
But the blue rain sinks, straight

Not quite four a.m., when the rapt
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books ar
in their neat and colorful rows. H