There’s little tremor in the backyard trees;
November doing what November knows,
I dream and then wake up, and then I sneeze.
While dawn’s white body unravels from its ease
A thought should be as natural as a rose:
There’s little tremor in the backyard trees
Reading from their own anthologies,
Leaf after leaf. Lately comatose,
I dreamt, and now wake up, and now I sneeze.
Doubt can arrive in pomps and panoplies,
High as a parrot or as crude as crows.
But little tremor shakes the backyard trees.
Awareness dominates the mysteries
Every night. Puck flits by on his toes
While I dream. And then wake up. And then I sneeze
Wishing the pollen cancelled by disease
And all spring’s poetry rolled back to prose,
I dream and then wake up, and then I sneeze.
There’s not much tremor in the backyard trees.