O Pretty Self
A snake curled in the sun
feels my shadow come and goes
ripples over stones.
The stream falls down
and oozes out of moss
and mud where a deer’s stepped.
No, I won’t pick this violet.
Let it clutch the cracking rock
blue out of yellow from a black dot.
When I leave these woods to work
and stammer or say two words at once
I’ll think of it and stop.