the steadying breeze of Bach

I'm twenty dark rings deep
and two thousand thunders weak
in cedar, oak and olive years.

My fingers are in the ground
the ants they crawl and tickle
and sculpt the warm soft sand

I caught me ladybirds and frogs
and set them on the morning fog
with sweaty hands in summertime.

Now I'll rest me near the river old
and count the bits of fools gold
between my toes and feet.

This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me,
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold