From here, barred owls ladder winter sun’s
“earths of different colours, as blue, a kind of crimson,
grass-green, shining black, chalkwhite, and ochre”
Montagnes de Pierres Brillantes,
Or there, a stand of scarlet sumac (with bobolink
sphericling the hereabouts
lit with a fine straw-colored light like the spirits of trees
—some Appalachia for backdrop)
drinks in all green wide summer
to a berry.
Off the porch I see twelve miles into the sunflower patch.
High noon stands still as a just-picked apple.
These are The Foundations.
Copyright © Robert Johnson
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.