A Poet Reflects

We live half our lives
in fantasy, and words.  This morning I am pretending
to be walking down the mountain in the heat.
A vault of blue sky, traildust, the sweet medicinal
scent of mountain grasses, and at the trailside—
I’m a little ashamed that I want to end this poem
singing, but I want to end this poem singing—the wooly
closed-down buds of the sunflower to which, in English,
someone gave the name, sometime, of pearly everlasting.

—Robert Hass, closing lines to “Interrupted Meditation,” from Sun Under Wood (Ecco, 1996) 

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    We live half our lives in fantasy, and words. This morning I am pretending to be walking down the mountain in the heat....
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