Pastoral
-- William Carlos Williams
When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel-staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best
of all colors.
No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.
Pastoral
no one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation
-- William Carlos Williams
it’s true.
the images and lives that
obsess us are just
leaves falling to
a pond’s mottled surface:
they swirl in reds and yellows for
a moment then
sink, swallowed,
while the important air, stitched
with busyness, rushes
past. but
there’s a beauty to this
unremarkable collection,
i think, a sense that
we are part of some
strange and urgent
return to an
original stillness.
Suggested soundtrack: Anything by Chopin.
