Cherry blossoms charged pink,
blinked of rich red future rush
of fine new fruit,
falling
freshly to me;
only too soon did I see,
reposing in now-familiar limbs,
that smooth red wood would so well suit
for carving fine rich furniture;
cutting and milling it
I moved on.

Ranging
in wide rolling tides of pine,
forests of firs, all the coniferous brittle
turpentine trees
breathed on me
a fresh crisp needle-fragrance;
I grew as wild and wide as that common tree.
But then I began to see
how broad pine beams
build structure into dreams —
and again I saw
timbers toppled and trimmed,
treated for use.
I moved on.

Along a lonely road
a live oak leaned and spoke
roughly in rich tones to me:
moss-bearded sage,
issuing wisdom gray with age,
grumbling green solidity.
I grew tough,
drew up gnarled and huge;
but soon enough
hard floors and solid stairs
called for the oak, broken and cut.
Nothing was left then but
to move on.

Kneeling about the base
of a towering cypress temple tended
by storks and egret priests,
I needed to grow to know the grace,
the grand patience of the place:
insular spike of pride,
mystical spire spun with thin green.
But then,
again at the edge of understanding,
I stepped away and wanted
weatherproof wood
so my structures would stand when I
moved on.

Save me the still willows,
silent, to wait on —
soul, let me sit awhile,
shifting and watching,
softly waiting,
sifting my will
slowly away.

(1966)