A great crash
of blue sky. The lid of night has been torn off, darkness banished; the sun will have its way. A great shining loveliness. The middle of the month is anchored solid: you cannot be more pleased; you won't be more disappointed if you lose it.
The season is slinging greenness like a mad artist with only one color in his palette, too poor to buy others, too rich in green sensation to see the need.
It's as if the poet has only one adjective - green. Well, today it's as if the poet has two adjectives - green and blue. It's as if the poet has only three adjectives - green and blue and bright. Hold the warm light as if it's a blanket. Love this, love this, love this.
Dewy-gilded lawn. A race of robins. A lovely lay of sunlight on everything. How can I complain?
Does the wind blow from southeast to northwest? A slow flap, perhaps. Haziness, far off in all directions. Some clouds, farther off. A diffuseness above the black soil, not as thick as fog, yet thicker than light.
North of Five Corners, a shrub in blossom - white and green along the ditch. Finally - winter has its tail nailed into the northland. It shall not return; for now it shall not return.