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 sassafrass. 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.