Goodbye to the Lamb
Wheat, apricots, immediate love,
the April lamb’s insouciance,
whatever the sun can manage —
I want to stay . . . with the rushes
along the Nile in a worn children’s book.
I want to notice the meadow thistle in light rain.
You’ll be there, in daylight and near houses.
The bitten grass will be a pure refrain.
Bluish lilac in the wings, damp winds,
an optimism at its height before planting,
the air not yet rife with dispersal:
the zinnia, the acorn, the hour. O
charismatic bits. Time, time on our hands,
and the best regards of incipient flowers.