Watching from high grass
in the Sierra, I’d sit
still for the flash of
a rare Oriole.
Now I have a comfy chair,
a view of the street.
The sitting’s the same.
Sometimes the familiar
delivers the gift.
Glosses on texts by William Desmond
Watching from high grass
in the Sierra, I’d sit
still for the flash of
a rare Oriole.
Now I have a comfy chair,
a view of the street.
The sitting’s the same.
Sometimes the familiar
delivers the gift.