In regard to their own movement The stars we track have no inkling. They're just burning. Is the willow less in winter? God's a far cry and busy Counting dead ants, dead stars. In regard to its own movement the willow tree Knows less and less. Now and then now and then I forget what I am saying To myself, often When you touch me, Even if we are just wandering down this street On the surface of a planet Turning through the fire. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE IN THE WINDS by RICHARD HOVEY THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA by MIRABEAU BONAPARTE LAMAR MEZZO CAMMIN by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TO-NIGHT by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON THE BURIAL-MARCH OF THE DUNDEE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THEIR VERY MEMORY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 16 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |