Come with me
into the field of sunflowers.
Their faces are burnished disks,
their dry spines
creak like ship masts,

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

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

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your kn
for a hundred miles through the de
You only have to let the soft anim
love what it loves.

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

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,

The feet of the heron,
under those bamboo stems,
hold the blue body,
the great beak
above the shallows

The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked

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

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, lik
the wings of a moth in the beak of
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.