My friend Bobbi Jordan sent the following two poems, one by e.e. cummings and, as she said, the Frost poem just slipped in somehow…  Bobbi was responding to my posting a few days ago the cummings poem Pity this Busy Monster.

I thought about Bobbi and others who love the poetry we shared at school on a walk near Patrick and Elaine's house at the edge of wilderness between San Diego and Rancho Santa Fe. The day was perfect and the walk along the wilderness paths where Patrick and Elaine walk and run regularly was spring being a perhaps hand coming carefully out of Nowhere.

Spring is like a perhaps hand 

(which comes carefully 

out of Nowhere)arranging 

a window,into which people look(while 

people stare

arranging and changing placing 

carefully there a strange 

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps 

Hand in a window 

(carefully to 

and fro moving New and 

Old things,while 

people stare carefully 

moving a perhaps 

fraction of flower here placing 

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

 Prayer In Spring - Poem by Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above.