Two Poems

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.

Late March

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.