(1947-1995 / United States)

No Steps

The young bull dropped his head and stared.
Only a wispy wire—electrified—kept us
apart. That, and two long rows of asparagus.
An ancient apple tree
blossomed prodigally pink and white.

The muddy path sucked at my shoe,
but I reached the granite step, and knocked
at the rickety porch door.
Deep in the house a dog began to bark.
I had prepared my Heart Fund speech,
and the first word—When—was on my tongue.

I heard no steps—only the breeze
riffling the tender poplar leaves,
and a random, meditative moo
behind me. . . . Relieved, I turned back
to the car, passing once more
under the bull's judicial eye. . . .
Everything was intact: the canister,
still far too light and mute,
and metal boutonnières where they began—
in a zip-lock plastic sandwich bag.

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Comments (2)

No steps made toward progress of the intended pursuit, but such magnificent strides accomplished in the direction of being within the moment. Beauty personified, that is Jane Kenyon's poetry.
Love how all of this particular poet's poems are all filled with such great imagery.