You know, the earth comes alive when it rains.
Life doesn’t disappear. It revives, runs out to dance.
So I flick off the lamp and write by dusk.
It’s darkening, but do I care?
I wish time meant nothing.
I could drift from strength to weakness
without guilt.
I’m afraid of these woods—because they are dense? because
they are imperfect?
Those old woods overgrew long ago.
No more of those paths our feet made.
I still think of the horses,
the cobwebbed shelters,
the pond on top of the hill,
the lily of the valley everywhere,
and feel small.
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