For W.S. Merwin

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiYou would not begrudge the milkweed pod

its bloom in winter, or the pale flakes

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof snow,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiia vortex caught in the edges
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiwhere are you

of its milk-white feathers

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiThose seeds
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI wonder

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicling lightly, nestled in down—

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithen the wind

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitakes them

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisets them wandering
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin the dark
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat marvelous anniversary
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof the soil. They will sleep, for how

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimany seasons, we try and figure
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiwithout end

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithe number,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieach dream, their every
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiislumber imperfect, complete

 

JULIE PHILLIPS BROWN