Sunday. What still sunny days
We have now. And I alone in them.
So brief—our best!
So much is wrong, but not my hills.
I have been thinking of writing
A letter to the President of China.
Do it, do it, do it, do it.
I beseech you, I beseech you,
I beseech you, I beseech you.
Mornings like this: I look
About the earth and the heavens:
There is not enough to believe—
Mornings like this. How heady
The morning air! How sharp
And sweet and clear the morning air!
Authentic winter! The odor of campfires!
Beans eighteen inches long!
A billion chances—and I am here!
And here I lie in the quiet room
And read and read and read.
So easy—so easy—so easy.
Pools in old woods, full of leaves.
Give me time enough in this place
And I will surely make a beautiful thing.