It's morning, the silence of things growing
covers the dripping world as butterflies
are witness. I stand among the snails,
the most like me of all the living here,
and let the arduous fun of knowing
lead me past my hands, my nose, my eyes,
into the petals of roses, details
of stems, until I can hear the here
and now bust around me like a small sign
to a huge destination. Inside, my wife
Some grieve the road not taken,
or build a cell they do not leave, or pine
for warships, pins and prizes, a speckled life.
Not me. I have my dream when I awaken.
LETTER TO A POET WHO HAS NEVER LEFT TIBET
We live in a house made of trees, my wife,
My son, a dog and I, we have a life
As quiet as a bee's. I try to teach
The four things I have learned, knowing that each
will find a place to lie. (I've put the four
In other poems.) Like you, I guess, I'm more
A poet than a lover or a friend,
Though I am friendly, and my loves don't end.
As to my country, it is much too strong
To go the way it's going very long,
Our old are books we do not read, our young
Are never singing, and they are never sung.
I think we take more than we'll ever give.
There is a tax on flowers where I live.
ODE to a significant birthday?
The leaves on the old trees,
just as green as those on the new.