No use going hunting for angels，

    for a Christ in the tree-mops，

    a Moses winding¹ his way up the mount

    into the fire of God's fresh stubble.

    There is just a serious rain，

    a steady crutch² for the air，

    colder than any April should be.

    I am up to my neck in chores：

    the cat needs more food，

    my daughter's clutter³ piles up like ant hills，

    I fold her little sleeves， ghost by ghost.

    What melody springs from the heart so well？

    These lone⁴ trees can't be dazzled by sun today，

    they have such tremors⁵ like the Pope's.

    Lost loons pitched into sky folds，

    their crusty buds just blinking

    as if to test how fierce the light is.

    They sag⁶ and meander⁷ from their stems，

    they bleed from transparency.

    Needless or hopeless， as overused fountains，

    they are my metrics， my fortitude⁸；

    plants with lemony grass spigots

    that will never go dry.