Oh you real effulgent frailties Look
a book, a banister, a sinister
affirmation of how little
we achieve in looking a bog, an orchard, an icy shore
shorn of longing a flower, a power-
line flecked with lingering over their split
tails, then the mass of them amassing
living darkening cloud
When they settle I am slumped
in my plushest lonely meadow, nook
look, look the augur of them in
the unfamiliar immediacy of any old mothering oak