It's been a happy reading.
I'd like to end with three quiet poems, all short.
This is a short poem called "The Plants."
I was with Lois today at the Desert Museum,
where all poets go.
All good poets go to the museum today,
but there're these incredibly prodigal flowers in February
at this 70 degree temperature.
And I saw the sweet acacia with the yellow blooms,
and the sign says, the sweet acacia
blooms from here down to Argentina.
And I've been there in Minnesota with my little plant spray,
struggling to get this fuchsia to keep going and not die.
It's flowering actually.
I've been talking to it, telling it not to give up.
And there are these acacias flowering from here
to Argentina.
It's not fair.
Anyway, here's a little poem called "The Plants."
So just three more poems here.
Plants, "The Plants."
"In my house, I keep green books,
whose pages turn without me.
You, window friend facing South, you
bear the dawn on your leaves and the day's last blood.
And in that dawn, how quickly the dark's load
slides from you, and the mind more slowly, its bad dreams.
Jerusalem cherry, you are called.
And at Easter, a tiny green Christ rose up in your leaves.
You darker friend, facing your perfect twin in the mirror.
You, rooted but no prisoner.
You are small.
But at night, I see myself sitting under you
while the larger body is sleeping.
Australian umbrella tree, with a wet cloth I wipe your leaves.
It is as if I clean a lens.
You go up into midnight, and I want heart
to be a plant that in a dark house stays wet,
its leaves dripping.
A green book I keep whose pages turn without me."