rainy afternoon—
 
reading Mary Oliver
 
to rout my sorrow

 
 
 

After Thanksgiving
 
the willow lightens its load,
 
shrugging off more leaves.

 
 
 

Walking through the woods
 
on Thanksgiving afternoon—
 
this is feast enough.

 
 
 

When I write poems,
 
blackbirds fly from my fingers,
 
wrens leak from my eyes.

 
 
 

Some mornings are hard,
 
as hard as ice on a pond
 
at forty below.

 
 
 

On the mountain path
 
I seek a place to shelter—
 
autumn thunderstorm.

 
 
 

Prophet at my door,
 
have you a stone in your throat,
 
or is that a crow?