From the Undergrowth

New roses flush in the serein

As a black cat stretches for the rake

With its uncertain lean, not far enough—

Good luck, she thinks, like a glimpse

Of a jewel in the sand or

For anything about to happen

But not tied to a load of bricks, a wall of questions

Requiring of her a vision with a locksmith's precision.

She thinks reserve brings the cries of love

Nearer-to-hand, rooted. Whose voice

Beside the cricket's in the lavish growth

Of wild ivy and sunset makes her drowsy, and

Incidentally, lucid with faith

Again? Whose virtue made sooth

Inside her? Credence sinks for the night ahead

When a slivered moon launches a boat for the waves'

Un-spooling in the wind,

The subtlest pearl hers alone to tell.