first poem


As we’re on the road still,

dragging our heels, up–

hill,  and for all our toil

in the hot wind, and for all

the smart and discipline,

I’ll say this.



There’s something to be said

for a soft luxurious

bed in the first

spring of morning: the flies

affirm it, and violets, and birds

and the worm spilled.



I saw the black crows

circling the dawn even before

the sun tipped the leaves

of evergreens golden.

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