Gardening Summer Fog

(at station 351073)

Not a lighthouse really
But beacon on stilts
Standing at shallows

Between silted water
Of the wash and
Deeps of receding sea.

What climbs its
Black iron ladder,
Studies enamelled dials,

Is me --in
Thought and augury.
But what is this,

This mist in bloom
Where tide has
Percolated low?

I really can't say.
Is it you? Hello!
Happy birthday!

Among Sunflowers

Among sunflowers I am
Small as a cat, an
Animal that deforms
In stalks and stems;
Its brain, instincts,
Things portable
In wilderness.
I become no more,
No less, an animal
Equipped only to see
What confronts me,
Yet I believe the
Soul is not invisible.
It rolls and weaves,
Reveals itself in
All action, of which
This moment, garden
And I compose
The merest fraction.