In regard to their own movement The stars we track have no inkling. They're just burning. Is the willow less in winter? God's a far cry and busy Counting dead ants, dead stars. In regard to its own movement the willow tree Knows less and less. Now and then now and then I forget what I am saying To myself, often When you touch me, Even if we are just wandering down this street On the surface of a planet Turning through the fire. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org |