FROM A BUS WINDOW IN CENTRAL OHIO,
JUST BEFORE A THUNDER SHOWER

Cribs loaded with roughage huddle together
Before the North clouds.
The wind tiptoes between poplars.
The silver maple leaves squint
Toward the ground.
And old farmer, his scarlet face
Apologetic with whiskey, swings back a barn door
And calls a hundred black-and-white Holsteins
From the clover field.

TRYING TO PRAY

This time, I left my body behind me, crying
In its dark thorns.
Still,
There are good things in this world.
It is dusk.
It is the good darkness
Of women's hands that touch loaves.
The spirit of a tree begins to move.
I touch leaves.
I close my eyes, and think water.

A BLESSING

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
In the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
The step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one my arms,
For she has walked to over me
And nuzzled by left-hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as this skin over a girls wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom