For W.S. Merwin
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiYou would not begrudge the milkweed pod
its bloom in winter, or the pale flakes
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof snow,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiia vortex caught in the edges
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiwhere are you
of its milk-white feathers
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiThose seeds
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI wonder
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicling lightly, nestled in down—
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithen the wind
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitakes them
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisets them wandering
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin the dark
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat marvelous anniversary
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof the soil. They will sleep, for how
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimany seasons, we try and figure
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiwithout end
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithe number,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieach dream, their every
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiislumber imperfect, complete