For L. W.

I

Beside the river bank
     in the valley below,
the redwoods catch the sun
above the mist
     with their feathery tops.

II

Cool on the forest floor
     the moisture raises a rank odor,
     like sassafras.

III

Among the pines in the morning fog
     a waterdrop at the end of every needle
     reflects the world.

IV

Massaging your back,
     in the dry grass,
         in the heat, in the light,
     I look up from convexities
     of bright flesh to hills
     that waver in the distance.