TO PAINT THE PORTRAIT OF A BIRD "Pour faire le portrait d'un oiseau" by Jacques Prevert

Thanks to Dave Fross of Native Sons Nursery from whom we first heard this poem.

To paint the portrait of a bird, Paint first a cage with an open door. Then paint inside the cage Something beautiful, something useful to the bird. Place the canvas against a tree In a garden or a forest And hide behind the tree Without speaking or moving. Maybe the bird will arrive quickly But it could take years. Don't be discouraged. Wait. Wait all the years if need be: the bird's quickness or slowness will not affect the success of the painting. When the bird arrives (if it does), be completely silent and wait until it enters the cage- then softly close the door with the paintbrush.

Erase one by one the bars And, being careful not to touch The bird's feathers, Paint the tree, choosing The best of its branches For the bird to perch on. Paint also the foliage And the cool breeze And the rays of the sun; Paint the sounds of the animals, The plants, the summer warmth. Then wait until the bird decides To sing or not to sing: If not, it is a bad sign And a sign the portrait is bad, But singing is a good sign- A sign that you can sign. Very softly, pluck a feather From the bird and write your name In a corner of the canvas.

THE SUMMER DAY
By Mary Oliver

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- The one who has flung herself out of the grass, The one who is eating sugar out of my hand, Who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- Who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down Into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, How to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, Which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

With thanks to Matt Burrows, who brought us both this poem and the beautiful photo to accompany it. Clarkia Meadow at Yerba Buena Nursery.

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