at constant war is held off,
as from a great fortress.
The warm solid ovals are pulled
from beneath the speckled hens,
the bursting crimson fruit drops
from the vines at the fence,
the greedy finches snatch
the jewel-like berries.
The total, ripe, rapacious
arguments of nature
are held up for a lesson
as in some Socratic dialogue
with a private rhetoric
of quirky weather and a grammar
of quotidian chores.
The words of the world enclose
him who reads leaning;
who leans, resting
on his hoe from breaking
stubborn clods of clay.
Longing has been too long
the motive for beauty;
and solitude too much enshrined
like a monstrous Buddha
with the twining arms
of selfish gifts. The gift
and the lie shimmer
in reflection on the pond
with a vaporous light,
a mosquito's hum as dirge.
