The water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday.

With night coming early, And dawn coming late, And ice in the bucket And frost by the gate. The fires burn And the kettles sing, And earth sinks to rest Until next spring.

I saw Lon Chaney Jr. walking with the Queen, Doin’ the werewolves of London I saw a werewolf drinkin’ a piña colada at Trader Vic’s And his hair was perfect.

Again the wind Flakes gold-leaf from the trees And the painting darkens — As if a thousand penitents Kissed an icon Till it thinned.

That a great blue heron Should sail over my house each evening And circle the wet fire of the marsh, Concentrically spiralling down, Is near to holiness for me.

The fields lie wrapt in autumn dreams, Beneath the dim, blue vault of night, The moon, like a bark on sluggish streams, Spreads soft her sail of silver light.

The day is yet one more yellow leaf And without turning I kiss the light By an old well on the last of the month Gathering wild rose hips In the sun.

Full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

A boy and his dad on a fishing trip — There is a glorious fellowship! Father and son and the open sky, And the white clouds lazily drifting by.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel — Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze, With labored respiration, moves the wheat From distant reaches, till the golden seas Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

Why all the embarrassment About being happy? Sometimes I’m as happy As a sleeping dog, And for the same reasons, And for others.

History is a guide to navigation in perilous times. History is who we are and why we are the way we are.

The kingfisher rises out of the black wave Like a blue flower, In his beak he carries a silver leaf. I think this is the prettiest world – so long as you don’t mind a little dying.

Mosquito is out, It’s the end of the day; She’s humming and hunting Her evening away. Who knows why such hunger Arrives on such wings at sundown? I guess it’s the nature of things.

The fan beats back and forth, A lighthouse beacon made of wind. It spots you for a breath of time, then turns away, Leaving you in the dark of calm.

Sing in the silent sky, Glad soaring bird; Sing out thy notes on high To sunbeam straying by Or passing cloud; Heedless if thou art heard Sing thy full song aloud.

Everyone’s feeling pretty It’s hotter than July Though the world’s full of problems They couldn’t touch us even if they tried.

I am waiting for the day That maketh all things clear And I am awaiting retribution For what America did To Tom Sawyer And I am waiting For Alice in Wonderland.