childe hassam painting

 poem by mary oliver

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?

 poem: the ladder slips into the mist crumbling away
the fire at my back as the snow gently settles on the trees

for my guests, i counted the small wooden tiles
9A 12E 2 H 1K

 the bird girl, in Savannah, from a grave, weighs her chances

 the invention of fire, the ladder disappearing into the light
reminds me that i will meet ultraviolet in a week to talk about angels