by Joanne Kyger

    The grasses are light brown

    and ocean comes in

    long shimmering¹ lines

    under the fleet from last night

    which dozes² 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 transformation³

    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

    Come along

    with me under pine whose new cones⁴

    make flowers. In a mellow⁵ 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 crab⁶ shells

    snail⁷ shells， the head of a grebe

    molesin， new onions up. Drawn⁸ by

    your clever sleigh of tortoise

    I listen for the melody

    to sing along.

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