For L. W.


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


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


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


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.