Here are

the cawing of the crows;

something other poets I like

would write about.


Here at the window I sit


like a guiding light

for someone to come home by.


The view from the room

is like any view:

looks out, takes in,

spoiling the unenclosed.


As I sit, the petals drop—

a whisper, an urge, then

shift and slip

down to the ground below.


And still

life! This curiosity

that leads me back always back

to the view.


Black and ancient rains that

have known other storms

wet the window now—

wet rain on rain.


No cloud is ever new.

No curtain any fuller.

The flowers are gone.

The arbor is empty.


[From the Maine series]

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