“Anthropocene Pastoral” by Cather… In the beginning, the ending was b… Early spring everywhere, the trees… pink and white, lawns the sharp gr… that meant new. The sky so blue it…

“Today” by Billy Collins If ever there were a spring day so… so uplifted by a warm intermittent… that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house

“To Be Held” by Linda Hogan To be held by the light was what I wanted, to be a tree drinking the rain,

“In a Station of the Metro” by E… The apparition of these faces in t… Petals on a wet, black bough.

“A Song on the End of the World”… On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net… Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

“A Blessing” by James Wright Just off the highway to Rochester… Twilight bounds softly forth on th… And the eyes of those two Indian… Darken with kindness.

“They Sit Together on the Porch”… They sit together on the porch, th… Almost fallen, the house behind th… Their supper done with, they have… The dishes–only two plates now, tw…

“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black b… Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean—

“Dishwater” by Ted Kooser Slap of the screen door, flat knoc… of my grandmother’s boxy black sho… on the wooden stoop, the hush and… of her knob-kneed, cotton-aproned…

“Ars Poetica” by Archibald MacLe… A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb,

“Flying at Night” by Ted Kooser Above us, stars. Beneath us, cons… Five billion miles away, a galaxy… like a snowflake falling on water.… some farmer, feeling the chill of…

“The Peace of Wild Things” by We… When despair for the world grows i… and I wake in the night at the lea… in fear of what my life and my chi… I go and lie down where the wood d…

“The Conditional” by Ada Limón Say tomorrow doesn’t come. Say the moon becomes an icy pit. Say the sweet-gum tree is petrifie… Say the sun’s a foul black tire fi…

“The Farm” by Joyce Sutphen My father’s farm is an apple bloss… He keeps his hills in dandelion ca… and weaves a lane of lilacs betwee… and the jack-in-the-pulpits.

“Shoulders” by Naomi Shihab Nye A man crosses the street in rain, stepping gently, looking two times… because his son is asleep on his s… No car must splash him.