By Donald Crane
She got the path to the spring house
through the asters and fireweed
and the orange “touch me not.”
The grey smudges that are deer
at the far edge of the pasture at dusk.
The broad leaves of the rhubarb plant
where early in the morning
the swallowtail butterflies lie
motionless with their wings spread
Redtail hawks overhead; jays fussing
in the apple orchard gone wild.
And from the kitchen window; the faint
haze in September over Tunk Mountain
20 miles away.
I got pigeons and starlings in the Bangor
city park, and a job stacking boxes
at the Mall.