A mole is in the garden.
I am at the nursery buying flowers.
It is Spring.

Here are three poems to tickle the mind this morning…

How A Thought Thinks
By Kay Ryan

A thought is dumb,
without eyes, ears,
opposable thumb,
or a tongue.
A thought lives
underground, not
wholly mole-ish
but with some
of the same
The amazing thing
is that it isn’t helpless.
Of all creatures it is the most
random eater.
caring only for travel
it eats whatever
roots, ants, or gravel
it meets. It occupies
no more space
than moles. We know it
only by some holes
and the way
apparently healthy notions
topple in the garden.

By Kay Ryan

A bestiary catalogs
bests. The mediocre
both higher and lower
are suppressed in favor
of the singularly savage
or clever, the spectacularly
pincerred, the archest
of the arch deceivers
who press their advantage
without quarter even after
they’ve won, as of course they would.
best is not to be confused with good
a different creature altogether,
and treated of in the goodiary –
a text alas lost now for centuries.

By Kay Ryan

Winter, like a set opinion,
is routed. What gets it out?
The imposition of some external season
or some internal doubt?
I see the yellow maculations spread
across bleak hills of what I said
I’d always think; a stippling of white
upon the grey; a pink the shade
of what I said I’d never say.

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