praise be
for the veily green haze of half-open leaves on
far-off trees
and John Van Wessing, still
white-armed, out on a tractor in a field already;
the nursery we passed:
people bent over plant beds, intent,
and bobbing as they pat the earth firm
at the base of seedlings;
pussy willow switches for sale in pails at the end
of a farm lane,
with only a hand-lettered sign and a box
for your coins;
the flash of poppy-red on black wing shooting up
out of cattails
like a silent bullet;
coolness enough for a jacket that flaps in the
wind,
enough sun for squinting.
