Spring Poem 

I was barefoot in the living world. The stream 

was high and my sandals came clean-off, 

sticking out of the mud. I saw a starling 

shake its wings into a puddle—April is just 

beginning to remember itself and 

the brown bear is frail, shivering. I know it 

when I see the trout lilies, their perfect, flat, 

gray faces. In a dream I was with Marie 

atop a pyramid, but really it was a garden 

in Babylon, she told me I was trying 

to close the door I encountered. Do you know

what I mean? Do you know the sycamore’s name 

in the first tongue? I read somewhere that 

an angel preserved the life of Daniel 

in the lion’s den, sealing the beast’s mouth 

so that it could not hurt him. If I were brave 

I would end this awful idleness. No, if I were brave 

I would lie down. I wish I would never

consider the body, that it was easier to hold

beautiful things—I hear my hair

bristling. On the way home 

I wash my feet and shoes in the stream.