Three Dogs

Mud Puddle is perhaps the fastest,
Built for hills, and herds, and work.

But Thistledown is sweetest-tempered,
All fond fur and waving tail.

And Primrose is the most rag-taggle:
Startled ears and hopping gait.

I see them on an airy ridge
The wind is blowing through their coats.

I see them poised to gallop down
The deep green swale, the great wide lawns.

They'll be glad to see you come;
They're very good with welcomings.

Give them each a kiss from me,
And keep them company for now.

You'll do it, won't you? Just until
I join you, sometime, later on.

Another Admonition

Muster up the forces of invention
And make for me another little world,
The twin and image of the one we know.
Then step inside.

And then -- within this brief, imagined O --
Unfold the scenes we played when we were young.
But do you take my part, each piece of it.
Live in my skin.

Do this for me, and do it earnestly,
And then -- why then, when you have played your scene,
And made your curtsey, I'll be full of thanks.
Thanks, and farewells.

A Word

I see that you are fluid; I am hard.
And therefore I have kept each mark and scar.
Take care -- keep running -- tumble over rocks --
You'll begin to stink if you grow still.

Speak -- As You Would Write

Come.
Come with me
And let us burn these words.

We uttered them between us,
Did we not?
And therefore they are ours
To keep or kill.

Let us unmake them.
Let us drain their sense
And cast their empty skins
Into the wind.

And perhaps --
The spirit might then knit itself anew.

Miserere

It is the spot of grace
That I address,
The shiver of the angel
At your core,
The place
Where you are God --

Comfort me.

You see how scorched I am;
You see I burn
Without relief or rescue,
Without help.
Only
You can help me.

Give me ease.

Your gentleness must grieve
At this harsh blaze,
Your kindness wish to succor --
Rain on me.
Divine,
You carry peace

Within you --

Rain on me.

(Sitting Still)

The muse of fire is not admitted here.
Imaginary forces have no right
To prick their proud hooves on this tender place
And print impressions there.
This is sequestered space.

Nor dreams-that-come-from-Zeus, let them be light --
As insubstantial as the wind, as frail
As fleeing ghosts that slip across the gaze --
Here no intruding sight
Assaults the wash of greys,

The shadowed lavender, and, lichen-pale,
The creep of green across the hemming wall.
This plot belongs to Mnemosyne alone.
And here things past assail
The senses till they drown.

Except when Lady Mercy pays a call.
She drops in uninvited as the dawn
And scatters balm like petals on the floor.
Unquiet waxes small;
And ease engulfs the sore.

Margin

There is the place for questioning:
The margin of the sky.
Will you keep me company
Along the road,
Along the track?
Will you come with me and stand
Behind the wind,
Before the sun?
Then let us gather up our skirts
With bells that jingle,
Beads that chime
Let us dress in happy scarves
And say goodnight to the dark.