I, too, come from the city of dolls. A small palm is my umbrella. This takes care of above but below, the blind river of sadness rolls on and in it, a hand is always reaching up to pick fish from the night-time sky. The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout with a strand of hair from the head of a doll. The bait is the hope for a hand on your brow. Shadows play on the wall. Or the face of a doll. The plants eyeing each other is all. I would not call the stars generous. They don't cry enough for dolls to play Drink Me. They don't cast a covenant's fishy rainbow yet leaf faces watch the open window where they hang far and hard. The rein of starlight a second hand with which to play Go Fish. Now Give me a hand, plants. Now give me good-night, stars.
On Moving Again
This evening, walking along the long field My eye was drawn to a living shimmer in the sky: Three aspens alone alive in a world of almost motionless Cottonwood and willow and Chinese elm trees. The breeze that barely stirred the others Sprang it free, spangling leaves like light on water, An electric flutter, the secret energy In the heart of the world revealed. So free. An aspen leaf might believe itself inordinately busy (especially comparatively) and certain therefore It will expire prematurely, useless, stupid, failed. From where I stood, it was the most beautiful thing to see. My life could be similarly pleasing to God. I guess this could be service enough for me.