A South Wind
Short grass, electric green, the ground
soggy from winter rain, Chaucerian
eyes of day, minute petals rose-tented,
nourished by droppings of ducks and geese.
Hold fast what seems ephemera -
plain details that rise clear
beyond the fogs of half-thoughts,
that rustling static, empty of metaphor.
Nothing much, or everything; all depends
on how you regard it.
On if you regard it.
Note the chalk -
yellow of hazel catkins, how in the wet
mild wind they swing toward spring.
Denise Levertov, 'Sands of the Well'