early at my door,
                                                  the star of morning
                                                  in your eyes ---
                                                  of course I will do anything
                                                  you want me to do today


                                                  a wheelbarrow's purpose
                                                  this morning shall be
                                                  holding rainwater
                                                  so the clouds have a place
                                                  to come and go as they like


                                                  they do not appear
                                                  as creatures of this world
                                                  women in shadow
                                                  bathing in the green water,
                                                  native to the green land



                                                  crossing the border
                                                  from hill country to mountain,
                                                  the veeries grow distant
                                                  and something else falls away
                                                  my heart wanted to keep


                                                 on my return,
                                                 brew some of that coffee
                                                 I sent from Sumatra
                                                 then I'll tell you about things
                                                 unmentioned in the letter


                                                 a fall afternoon
                                                 turned gusty---
                                                 the crackle of leaves
                                                 and everywhere, everywhere,
                                                 the smell of haylofts


                                                 these thoughts
                                                 that come and go
                                                 what are they really
                                                 but a glitter of light
                                                 on leaves and water


                                                 the moonlight
                                                 falling into her room,
                                                 onto her bed–
                                                 one thousand miles I've come
                                                 for this, over muddy roads

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