AT CARATUNK


 
 
Beside a spring pond
limpid as Corot
waiting, I found
oak, birch, willow
fed heart grown fond.

 
Some blind bond
drowned long ago;
some old wound
whispering low
in branches, wind.

 
(Signals they send
we don't understand.
Seedlings, sounding
every season's end.)

 
Over flat land
spry flocks row;
under hard ground
small seeds pry
off stiff shells, rend

 
frozen sedge, wend
green stems through.
In an endless round
I'd lose myself (so
into a circle bend).