THE BOUGHS

. . . So much is happening
Between the tossed boughs and the light:
No leaves disguise them yet; the air
They hurry through and parry; its tide's
Clutch, thwarting all smoothness in their moving;
Their featherings and see-through sweep and fall,
Nothing will let the eye compose
To its setting the veinwork oneness
That streams apart in meshed division,
Deriding us - watchers, sketchers, trying
To catch it down to us - we
Who should be in the crow's nest summit
Riding the storm out in that height, that sea.


NATURE POEM

This August heat, this momentary breeze,
...