This is the grass your
feet are planted on.
You paint it orange or
you sing it green,
But you have never found
A way to make the grass
mean what you mean.
A cloud can be whatever
you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower
or staring eye.
But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to
express the sky.
I
arrived home last night after dark. Even though it was hidden behind the clouds,
the moon made the pond mysterious and bright. In Washington I had looked at the
fog on the Potomac, subtle shades of white in a gallery and paused to discuss
poets and titles. As our words drifted, pondering associations of the material
to the conceptual, our eyes read the tunes of clay arrangements.
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