Classic Poem

To the bob-white's call
and drone of reaper

tumbling daisies in the sun —
one by one

about the smutting panels of
white doors

grey shingles slip and fall —
But you, a loveliness

of even lines
curving to the throat, the

crossroads is your home.
You are, upon

your steady stem
one trumpeted wide flower

slightly tilted
above a scale of buds —

Sometimes a farmer's wife
gathers an armful

for her pitcher on the porch —
Topping a stone wall

against the shale-ledge
a field full —

By the road, the river
the edge of the woods

— opening in the sun
closing with the dark —

everywhere
Red Lily

in your common cup
all beauty lies —