In Summer
Night lies down
in the field when the moon
leaves. Head in clover,
held still.
It is brief
this time of darkness
hands of night
loosefisted, long hair
outspread.
Sooner than one would dream,
the first bird
wakes with a sobbing cry. Whitely
dew begins to drift
cloudily.
Leafily naked, forms of the world
are revealed
all asleep. Colors
come slowly
up from behind the hilltop,
looking for forms to fil the day,
dwellings.
Night
must rise and
move on, stiff and
not yet awake.
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4 comments:
Thanks for the bit of Denise. Always nice to be reminded of how lovely her work was! (She was my teacher in the mid-eighties at Stanford.)
very nice, someone I've not read much of but always mean to get around to.
you teacher! that's a story i feel needs expounded upon!
Denise taught every winter quarter at Stanford for at least a decade, if not two. I took two courses with her. She was a vivid person whom I got along with very well, even when I rejected things she told me. And usually I later came to see the light. :-)
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