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Risa Bear
Whenever we worked at the creekside shed
there was always something else to do
such times as we were stumped, or nails ran short,
or the sun reached round the fir and baked us down
from raftering, roofing, or the like. We leaned,
gossip-like, against the fresh framing
of the walls, sipping solar tea,
watching the edge of a cloud's long skirt
chase the neighbors' horses leisurely
across their pasture, down the camas swale
and up the other side, against the black contrast
of maple-shrouded hills. The horses liked
to amble up to our corner, stand and watch.
We couldn't cure them of the shies,
though we might try with handfuls
of our green grass, or a few choice
If I should make no poems any more
There would be rest at least, so let it be;
Time to read books in other tongues and listen
To the long mellow thunder of the sea.
The year will turn for me, I shall delight in
All animals, and some of my own kind,
Sharing with no one but myself the frosty
And half ironic musings of my mind.
Now the mountain top is won,
Behold the valley in the sun —
The gold and yellow farms that lie
Bare-bosomed to the courting sky;
The olive hills, the meadows green.
The towns that punctuate the scene;
The little spires that seem to cry
For leaves and blossoms to the sky.
So delicate, it seems the breeze
Must stir them like the willow trees.
Ah, happy vale, how sweet you are,
As I observe you from this car;
How pleasant here to sit and shirk
And know your dwellers are at work!
I WOULD live for a day and a night,
In the rigorous land where everything's right.
Then I would sit and make a song,
In the leisurely land where everything's wrong.