From The Branch Will Not Break...

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distance of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last years horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

James Wright

Mary Bly

I sit here, doing nothing, alone, worn out by long
winter.
I feel the light breath of the newborn child.
Her face is smooth as the side of an apricot,
eyes quick as her blond mother's hands.
Weave back and forth.
I feel the seasons change beneath me,
Under the floor.
She is braiding the waters of air into the plaited
manes
Of happy colts.
They canter, without making a sound, along the
shores
Of melting snow.