Fringing the woods, the stone walls, and the lanes,
Old thickets everywhere have come alive,
Their new leaves reaching out in fans of five
From tangles overarched by this year’s canes.

They have their flowers, too, it being June,
And here or there in brambled dark-and-light
Are small, five-petalled blooms of chalky white,
As random-clustered and as loosely strewn

As the far stars, of which we are now told
That ever faster do they bolt away,
And that a night may come in which, some say,
We shall have only blackness to behold.

I have no time for any change so great,
But I shall see the August weather spur
Berries to ripen where the flowers were —
Dark berries, savage-sweet and worth the wait —

And there will come the moment to be quick
And save some from the birds,and I shall need
Two pails, old clothes in which to stain and bleed,
And a grandchild to talk with while we pick.

–Richard Wilbur

Previously:
Hummingbird
Indian Summer at Lands End
Coda

P.S. Do you guys like the Friday poems? I started posting them in April for National Poetry Month, but I can keep going if y’all are enjoying them...

{via flickr}

perhaps to love is to learn
to walk through this world.
to learn to be silent
like the oak and linden of the fable.
to learn to see.
your glance scattered seeds.
it planted a tree.
i talk
because you shake its leaves.

–Octavio Paz

{flickr}

The season stalls, unseasonably fair,
blue-fair, serene, a stack of golden discs,
each disc a day and the addition slow.
I wish you were here with me to walk the flats,
toward dusk especially when the tide is out
and the bay turns opal, filled with rolling fire
that washes on the mouldering wreck offshore,
our mussel-vineyard, strung with bearded grapes.
Last night I reached for you and shaped you there
lying beside me as we drifted past
the farthest seamarks and the watchdog bells,
and round Long Point throbbing its frosty light,
until we streamed into the open sea.
What did I know of voyaging till now?
Meanwhile I tend my flocks, small golden puffs
impertinent as wrens, with snipped-off tails,
who bounce down from the trees. High overhead,
on the trackless sky, skywriting V and yet
another V, the southbound Canada express
hoots of horizons and distances…

–Stanley Kunitz (from Passing Through, 1995)

Possibly my favorite poem of all time. What do you think?

{via flickr}

Suppose I say summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.

–Raymond Carver

April is National Poetry Month. Since I am, in fact, a poet (my senior thesis was a collection of original poetry!), I thought I would share one of my favorites every Friday this month. I hope you enjoy!