David Dodd Lee

Wings, the air
balloons, the
body of

a mole, "Up-
drafts," she said,

mud from Cress
Creek. The bright
green leaves and

flight, gliding
to rest one
bird at a

time, such slow
shining, the
water, the

thirst, the nights
and pines,
the pale stems

and breeze be-
side the gray
steel bucket.






Another nostalgia poem having to do with "childhood," or rather adolescence, when I used to grow pot every year along a creek in some woods. It was a beautiful time all around, and that’s
communicated in the poem—clear, simple, uncomplicated. Just being there, along the creek was enough, and brought with it such confluences of luminous impressions.... The poem was triggered
by a recent trip to Alaska, during which I felt similar feelings. It was difficult coming back down to the 48.