O day after day we can’t help growing older Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger Come let’s enjoy our winecup today, Nor pity the flowers fallen.

There’s a Polar Bear in our Frigidaire—He likes it ‘cause it’s cold in there. With his seat in the meat, And his face in the fish, And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish.

The scarlet maple-keys betray what potent blood hath modest May; What fiery force the earth renews, the wealth of forms, the flush of hues; Joy shed in rosy waves abroad.

The Lindt Easter bunny You said was “solid” Chocolate turned out To be hollow — its head Caved in when I peeled Back the gold foil.

. . . Oceanward I am ever yearning, Where far it rolls in its calm and grandeur, The weight of mountain-like fogbanks bearing, Forever wandering and returning.

And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

And then the halcyon late mornings After the fog burns off And the sun paints white houses With the sea light of Greece.

This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter.

 Oh, mercy! music may be bliss But not in such a shape as this, When all I do, and all I say, Begins and ends in Patrick’s Day.

An extra yawn one morning in the springtime, an extra snooze one night in the autumn is all that we ask in return for dazzling gifts.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Home is a place we carry inside ourselves, a place where we welcome the unfamiliar because we know that as time passes it will become the very bedrock of our being.

America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me. You let me make a difference. A place where even orphan immigrants can leave their fingerprints and rise up.

This thing, Called love, I just can’t handle it, This thing, Called love, I must get round to it, I ain’t ready, Crazy little thing called love.

Wood smoke in the valley Blends with the scent of snow, And winter Crystal quiet, Grips the ground below.

This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter.

Like stars, or the feathers Of some unimaginable bird That loves us, That is asleep now, and silent — That has turned itself Into snow.

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go.

Little January Tapped at my door today. And said, “Put on your winter wraps, And come outdoors to play.

So much of any year is flammable, Lists of vegetables, partial poems Orange swirling flame of days, So little is a stone.