My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hum
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there t
Here the clam deep in the speckled

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

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black b
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out

at twilight
when something begins
to sing, like a waterfall
pouring down
through the leaves. It is

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

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

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

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

Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,

Scatterghost,
it can’t float away.
And the rain, everybody’s brother,
won’t help. And the wind all these
flying like ten crazy sisters ever