curled in your clean sheets
as the summer rain sings.
The fan spins infinite circles—
an adult’s mobile—
gentle Greek sirens
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hill I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
My favorite high school teacher’s husband reads this poem on their answering machine. I think it’s cute.