Classic Poem

If we could see our own
wishes or those of another,
they would look like longspurs
or horned larks, I suppose, those brown
little birds that in cold weather
scatter, faint crucifers,

out of a cornfield or bog-hollow
blank from snow-fall—a quick
surrection of wings. They go
where we can't follow;
or come, but bring nothing back
save more cold or more snow.











By permission of the author.