I came to the woods
to rock on the cabin porch listening
to the wind new in the leafing trees
and look through green lace
at white clouds sailing on blue sky.
An inchworm repelled
from the roof to alight on my coat
and measure my sleeve.
A seed from a dandelion
parachuted onto my boot.
Squirrels had gnawed off the edge
of the arms of my great grandmother's chair,
a sturdy mission oak i had painted
Scout blue forty years ago
with leftover enamel
when i patched the old International
and my children ran happy
and poor through the oatfield
with the sun in their hair.
I tell you all this
because i got what i came for
and it no longer hurt me
if an old love had turned venal and mean.
The small things were best,
like the fat Junebug
banging its head on the screen.
