At or near the rocky shore deposited
By a long-since melted glacier, creatures
Gathered and chased each other: spiders,
Butterflies, small fry in the shadows,
Larvae in their glued-together tubes of mud.
A thick golden scurf of pine pollen floated
Around bits of driftwood and hunks
Of slippery rocksnot. Wild roses bloomed.
A boy with a net searched with passion,
If not much discipline, for a real fish to catch.
Walt Whitman might have been in the grass
As he promised, himself the grass, but he
Had not changed the grass, and that aspect
Of Walt that did change the way some of us
Saw the grass along this shore this June day
Was the part of the poet that went forever
Away from all of this, never to come back.
No comments:
Post a Comment