Return to If Wishes Were Horses Beggars Would Ride

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary, 

or even 

a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance

and comfort.



Not one can manage a single sound, though the blue jays

carp and whistle all day in the branches, without 

the push of the wind.


But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing

for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen


and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.


Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a 

little sunshine, a little rain.


Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from 

one boot to another--why don't you get going?


For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.


And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists

of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.