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Tuesday, June 4, 2002

Walk at Noon work in progress

Walking down the little
Road on the edge of town
Over the noon hour,
A steel gray shadow
Gathers to the north
And gains form and function
Even as I walk and watch.

But it seems to move beyond,
So I turn my attention to the
Road before me, and what
Lies beside. Aisles of green.

Here are the wild raspberries,
Heavy with white flowers,
And I look forward three or
Four weeks to the edgy-sweet
Harvest I will make as I walk.
A robin calls above me.
A car swishes by.
I gather the flowers, by threes,
Road-kill flowers, I call them.
Who else would know
Of the graceful bouquet
They will make? Only me?

The dark purple clover,
The smaller white ones,
Both fragrant, round, many florettes,
The wild daisies, yellow and white,
The grasses, solomon's seal plucked
From the edge of a wood.

The storm skirts north of town,
As I must finish my walk,
Taking my harvest, drooping a little,
Back to work. But this afternoon,
I will bury my face in them,
And breathe, and be walking
Down the road once again,
The storm having passed.

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