8
The wind blows the rain into our faces
as we go down the hillside
upon rusted cans and old newspapers,
past the tree on whose bare branches
the boys have hung iron hoops,
until we reach at last the crushed earthworms
stretched and stretching on the wet sidewalk.

9
On the hillside
facing the morning sun
how clear and straight each weed is.
On our way to the subway this morning
the wind blows handfuls of white petals upon us
from the blossoming tree on the hillside;
how like confetti—
but, of course,
this is the festival of spring.

10
These days the papers in the street
leap into the air or burst across the lawns—
not a scrap but has the breath of life:
these in a gust of wind
play about,
those for a moment lie still and sun themselves.