So just four more.
One of them, I'm pretty sure that this is the poem
that the broadside is of.
I haven't seen the broadside, and I'm very excited about this.
I can't tell you what an experience that
was to go out and take all the long
dried strands of autumn iris from their core
and pack them in a bag--
in a big box for Tucson, two boxes.
There are rose petals, day lilies, iris, watsonia,
narcissus bulbs.
I thought it was a very good thing that I
was too busy to do a lot of garden cleaning
this summer, because it meant there
was a lot of dried long leaves to send.
And I also can't quite remember a couple of tiny revisions,
which revision Karla has.
But anyhow, this should be the poem:
"Three Foxes by the Edge of the Field at Twilight."
One ran, nose to the ground, a rusty shadow neither hunting
nor playing.
One stood, sat, lay down, stood again.
One never moved except to turn her head a little as we walked.
Finally, we drew too close, and they vanished.
The woods took them back as if they had never been.
I wish I had thought to put my face to the grass,
but we kept walking, speaking as strangers
do when becoming friends.
There is more and more I tell no one, strangers nor loves.
This slips into the heart without hurry
as if it had never been, and yet among the trees
something has changed.
Something looks back from the trees and knows me for who I am.