WEBVTT

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It's been a happy reading.

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I'd like to end with three
quiet poems, all short.

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This is a short poem
called "The Plants."

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I was with Lois today
at the Desert Museum,

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where all poets go.

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All good poets go
to the museum today,

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but there're these incredibly
prodigal flowers in February

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at this 70 degree temperature.

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And I saw the sweet acacia
with the yellow blooms,

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and the sign says,
the sweet acacia

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blooms from here
down to Argentina.

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And I've been there in Minnesota
with my little plant spray,

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struggling to get this fuchsia
to keep going and not die.

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It's flowering actually.

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I've been talking to it,
telling it not to give up.

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And there are these
acacias flowering from here

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to Argentina.

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It's not fair.

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Anyway, here's a little
poem called "The Plants."

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So just three more poems here.

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Plants, "The Plants."

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"In my house, I
keep green books,

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whose pages turn without me.

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You, window friend
facing South, you

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bear the dawn on your leaves
and the day's last blood.

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And in that dawn, how
quickly the dark's load

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slides from you, and the mind
more slowly, its bad dreams.

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Jerusalem cherry,
you are called.

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And at Easter, a tiny green
Christ rose up in your leaves.

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You darker friend, facing your
perfect twin in the mirror.

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You, rooted but no prisoner.

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You are small.

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But at night, I see
myself sitting under you

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while the larger
body is sleeping.

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Australian umbrella tree, with
a wet cloth I wipe your leaves.

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It is as if I clean a lens.

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You go up into midnight,
and I want heart

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to be a plant that in
a dark house stays wet,

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its leaves dripping.

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A green book I keep whose
pages turn without me."

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