Where the ditch vaults the river, Where the wooden flume weeps over, Paying the way, Where its veil makes a thin distance And has no critics but wind-in-willowshade, My love and I lay down In seventeen kinds of native grasses. We took our time. Some wasps were building A Japanese lantern in the branches, The flume kept weeping into the river. Chilly ditchwater. Don't worry, little wasps, wooden flume, I'll be all right gone. 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...DOMESDAY BOOK: ALMA BELL TO THE CORONER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH [DECEMBER 22, 1864] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION by WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE OLD GREY MARE by MOTHER GOOSE |