For autumn, from poetryfoundation.org .
from The Beautiful Changes / by Richard Wilbur
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed
By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it;
As a mantis, arranged
On a green leaf, grows
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves
Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.
For runners big and small, from The Twentieth Century Children’s Treasury, edited by Jack Prelutsky, and illustrated by Meilo So.
from Running Song / by Marci Ridlon
How the trees are
whizzing by.
Rushing rivers
run forever.
May I can
if I try.
PIA: from an October 27.
For the season, from Ariel.
from The Moon and the Yew Tree / by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
For the season, from Poetry, April 2016.
from “Leaving Behind” / by Martha Collins
outside my window: locust, cloth
of gold on the ground: its yellow
tabs linden hearts sweetgum stars
For the season, from Ariel. I can’t believe she didn’t make it to the 21st-Century. What on Earth would have been next?
from The Moon and the Yew Tree / by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
For an Adrienne Rich kind of day, from The Fact of a Doorframe.
from Bears / by Adrienne Rich
Wonderful bears that walked my room all night,
Where are you gone, your sleek and fairy fur,
Your eyes’ veiled imperious light?
For your voice, however small, from Helen in Egypt. If the daughter of a mute swan can speak, so can you.
from Helen in Egypt, Book 5: 7 / by H.D.
do you hear me? do I whisper?
there is a voice within me,
listen — let it speak for me.
For flying cars, from Breathing the Water.
from Poet Power / by Denise Levertov
And he takes both hands
off the wheel and swings round,
glittering with joy: “Benedetti!
Mario Benedetti!”
There are
hallelujas in his voice —
For the fathers, from nervous horses.
from My Father Rode Great, Silver Birds / by Vicki Hearne
He rode B-52’s. He went off
Into the blue yonder on
Silver birds that leaped
Plashless into the air, then
Carried him safely home.
For every day is a good day for Tate, from The Eternal Ones of the Dream.
from Quabbin Reservoir / by James Tate
I thought I heard a lute being played, high up,
in the birch trees, or a faun speaking French
with a Brooklyn accent. A snowy owl watched me
with half-closed eyes.
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