![](\"https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/images\/poets\/WrightJames.gif\")
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Poetry week continues with some old favorites. These aren\u2019t overtly \u201cdharma\u201d poems but lovely and haunting verses by a gnarly local poet, James Wright, pictured above. Pine Island is very near where I grew up. I have lived the moment Wright describes.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, <\/span><\/p>\n Poetry week continues with some old favorites. These aren\u2019t overtly \u201cdharma\u201d poems but lovely and haunting verses by a gnarly local poet, James Wright, pictured above. Pine Island is very near where I grew up. I have lived the moment Wright describes. Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-442","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nJust off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, <\/span><\/div>\nTwilight bounds softly forth on the grass. <\/span><\/div>\nAnd the eyes of those two Indian ponies <\/span><\/div>\nDarken with kindness. <\/span><\/div>\nThey have come gladly out of the willows <\/span><\/div>\nTo welcome my friend and me. <\/span><\/div>\nWe step over the barbed wire into the pasture <\/span><\/div>\nWhere they have been grazing all day, alone. <\/span><\/div>\nThey ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness <\/span><\/div>\nThat we have come. <\/span><\/div>\nThey bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. <\/span><\/div>\nThere is no loneliness like theirs. <\/span><\/div>\nAt home once more, <\/span><\/div>\nThey begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. <\/span><\/div>\nI would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, <\/span><\/div>\nFor she has walked over to me <\/span><\/div>\nAnd nuzzled my left hand. <\/span><\/div>\nShe is black and white, <\/span><\/div>\nHer mane falls wild on her forehead, <\/span><\/div>\nAnd the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear <\/span><\/div>\nThat is delicate as the skin over a girl\u2019s wrist. <\/span><\/div>\nSuddenly I realize <\/span><\/div>\nThat if I stepped out of my body I would break <\/span><\/div>\nInto blossom.
<\/span>\n <\/span><\/span>Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy\u2019s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota <\/span><\/span><\/h1>\n
Asleep on the black trunk, <\/span><\/div>\nBlowing like a leaf in green shadow. <\/span><\/div>\nDown the ravine behind the empty house, <\/span><\/div>\nThe cowbells follow one another <\/span><\/div>\nInto the distances of the afternoon. <\/span><\/div>\nTo my right, <\/span><\/div>\nIn a field of sunlight between two pines, <\/span><\/div>\nThe droppings of last year\u2019s horses <\/span><\/div>\nBlaze up into golden stones. <\/span><\/div>\nI lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. <\/span><\/div>\nA chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. <\/span><\/div>\nI have wasted my life.<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/blogger.googleusercontent.com\/tracker\/4330911338438640912-2352831211319366890?l=wildfoxzen.blogspot.com\")