wood anemones[1]


Light splashed this morning

on the shell-pink anemones

swaying on their tall stems;

down blue-spiked veronica

light flowed in rivulets

over the humps of the honeybees;

this morning I saw light kiss

the silk of the roses

in their second flowering,

my late bloomers

flushed with their brandy.

A curious gladness shook me.


I can scarcely wait till tomorrow

when a new life begins for me,

as it does each day,

as it does each day.


From Stanley Kunitz, The round