The grasses are light brown
by Joanne Kyger
and ocean comes in
long shimmering lines
under the fleet from last night
which dozes now in the early morning
Here and there horses graze
On somebody's acreage
Strangely, it was not my desire
that bade me speak in church to be released
but memory of the way it used to be in
careless and exotic play
when characters were promises
then recognitions. The world of transformation
is real and not real but trusting.
Enough of the lessons? I mean
didactic phrases to take you in and out of
love's mysterious bonds?
Well I myself am not myself
and which power of survival I speak
for is not made of houses.
It is inner luxury, of golden figures
that breathe like mountains do
and whose skin is made dusky by stars.
O fresh day in February
with me under pine whose new cones
make flowers. In a mellow mood
let's take anything
and you're better
in the peaceful flowing
in the bech
in the bird who flys up
out of coyote bush,
bob cat who crosses the road.
For who could think I could see
the grace of other souls born, and reborn
before in crab shells
snail shells, the head of a grebe
molesin, new onions up. Drawn by
your clever sleigh of tortoise
I listen for the melody
to sing along.