Bare Bones

We're down now to the bare bones. What remains
Is all that matters, if you take apart
The body and discard the beating heart,
The lungs, whatever happens to our brains
In springtime, and ignore the April rains
And August hazes, where the seasons start
And finish, toss aside music and art,
Choose clocks over the wind, the sea, the cranes.

I am a nature poet. What I write
Is nature in its habitat: I sit,
At ease, in this large room. The fire is lit,
And nature shows our surest appetite:
Take sun and flowers, leave decay and night,
Leave us ideas, dignity, and wit.