At Albert’s Landing

(with my son)

I.	The path winds. You are around a bend Unseen. But your voice Crackles in the walkie-talkie You made me bring. “Here’s a leaf, A tree.” The detail, Not the design, excites you. I don’t know what to say. After months in the city, I’m feeling strange in the woods.
II.	Spongy ground. Matted leaves Beneath which lie Dirt, bones, shells. Late April: milky light And warmth. Thinnest odors rise. In the middle of one’s life More things connect With dying, what’s come, What’s over.
III.	It is said That what exists is like the sky Through which clouds pass. I suspect That mine is a poetry of clouds. Above me, some wispy tuft catches sun In an interesting way. The naked very thing. I’m glad of this, don’t look In the billowy mass For the teased-out shape Of a horse’s head or a bird’s wing. Yet finding it now and then, Unsummoned: some thought or image, Recalling how each Depends on each.
IV.	Together we follow the trail’s twists Until the pond. There, two white egrets Stand against the high brown grass. Intent watching Is almost timeless, but some noise One of us makes scares them off. They rise over our heads, circle Out of sight. Strange sadness Grips me. The after-image Of their shapes still burns.
V.	Here we are in some fugal world. Tree branches make a kind of tent. And the squirrel, when he eats, Looks like a little man. And here You fling your arms out Whirling around at the frightened Skimming ducks. The duck’s eye, Like ours, must be its center. We Are alone, rooted in our aloneness. And yet, things lean and lean, Explaining each other and not themselves. I call you; it’s time to go.
VI.	Different as the woods are This is no paradise to enter or to leave. Just the real, and a wild nesting Of hope in the real Which does not know of hope. Things lean and lean, and sometimes Words find common centers in us Resonating and filling speech. Let me know a little of you.