Hold fast what seems ephemera

 
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'