There is the plum tree snowing on the grass.
There is the road that leads up to the pass.
Now I will brightly think, and take my rest.
I will turn pink and sink into the West.
There is the bridge that spans the little creek.
There is the coffee mug I dropped last week.
I will give names to the marauding snail.
I will let spiders nest upon the mail.
There is a hymn within the thrush’s moan.
There is a worm that curled and died alone.
I will try not to be a thing that kills.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.
There is a prophet curled below the rose.
There is the Devil with his hunting nose.
I will open my hands, and not ask why.
I will turn bright and sink into the sky.
Paul J. Pastor
Paul J. Pastor is an Executive Editor for Nelson Books, and an essayist, critic, and poet. His latest book is The Locust Years: Poems. He lives in Oregon.
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