The morning sky is clouding up and what is that tree, dressed up in white? The fruit tree, French pear. Sulphur- yellow bees stud the forsythia canes leaning down into the transfer across the park. And trees in skimpy flower bud suggest the uses of paint thinner, so fine the net they cast upon the wind. Cross-pollination is the order of the fragrant day. That was yesterday: today is May, not April and the magnolias open their goblets up and an unseen precipitation fills them. A gray day in May.
James Schuyler - 1923-1991
This beauty that I see —the sun going down scours the entangled and lightly henna withies and the wind whips them as it would ship a cloud— is passing so swiftly into night. A moon, full and flat, and stars a freight train passing passing it is the sea and not a train. This beauty that collects dry leaves in pools and pockets and goes freezingly, just able still to swiftly flow it goes, it goes.