Little foxes we have been
all the days since we became alive,
turned loose after the wash of rain
to scamper through stalks of corn
and drive away the crows, shadow-rags
come to peck our eyes and thieve the grain.
In the cool of evening, rest with me
on the avocado couch beneath cedar beams,
comb the burrs from my hair, bring me
apples and raisins when I cry for the sweet.
Winter is over; branches already
brush the ground, heavy with figs
and green tears. Tomorrow we will run
through these fields, drop down where
blades of grass become blunders of stone,
on hands and unbruised knees scan
the cliff’s granite edge, drink rainwater
and thistle honey where they mingle
in the cleft of the rock.
Copyright © 2003 William Woolfit. All Rights Reserved.