At the back of the full moon
mid-may lined up round again
green-and-thick-leaved walls
and the spray—shivering foil—
rustles with tongues of thousands
of minute rumors—rushing by—
way too many now to catch,
and why would one even ask?—
And since there is no class
to teach—no thoughts to break
for the curious—I am free
to farm amid all this growth—
My own little quietude—
a way to tidy this world—
with less and less—yet—
in my mind—I wonder still—
would another ever recall
those just yesterday’s thin,
translucent leaves, so good
to let in all the vibrant light?
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