Some years close with copious snows
And cheeks of rose and red and green
Others chose when frost first slows
To lead the nose of new-year's spring

Others slip and spin and turn within
When come ag'in I can't recall
O Moons come in and go akin
For twelve and then to drop the ball?

But for solution a contribution
(a revolution!) is quite in order
Renew a motion from summer's ocean
A wave emotion, an august border;

For if the day should begin this way
Let's make a stay for eventide
The year I say her works allay
September day, the news abide!

Least/Greatest or On finishing working with earth on a summer night

I've become used to
my poverty; grabbing
thrusting and thirsting
for good things that
seem few and far between.

When I look at the man
On the street he says
"I'm as good as you..."
And I agree; he is at least
As good as me.

I've become used to
my wealth; the grandness
of small superlatives
for which it takes an exquisite
eye and a huge heart.

When I see the man
In the suit he says
"You too can do this..."
And I agree; I can also be
Weighed down by things.

Is it the gravel and dirt
Pests and bugs and bites
And burns and long nights
That make a man poor

But I have washed my fingers
(Underneath the nails)
Not because I have to
Nor for the sake of yearning
For a fantasy life that never

Is it the comfort of a good bath
Trees and vines to own and tend,
And eves when no worries wend,
That makes a man rich

I have looked at each
Of the stars in the sky and said
(Like the philosophers and fools)
"Give me a night and Africa
has less diamonds in her


Against the size of say
The heart of Jupiter
A diamond whose dimension
Exceeds that of the Earth --
Who is rich then --


The Lack

I looked and saw not one
No beads between fingers
No lamps lit and filled
With rose-scented oil.

What I saw before me was as
That first prayer probably
I looked and I perceived
And was filled full.

It was as though (not maybe)
The elements themselves
Sat ready rolling, tumbling
About to be made whole.

Hearing no word or song
Sounds all about, carnival
Whirling, crashing, calling
Strike iron, and ring the bell!

One, three, six, nine, eleven;
Such may be the prayer of Heaven.