Paul J. Willis Logo

Archive for nature poetry

Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 November 1, 2015 

Song

Blue night
and the coyote knows
what happens when you’re not there.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 October 1, 2015 

October

I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 June 1, 2015 

Lights Out

Now the moth can stop
beating his head
hopelessly against the lampshade,
and I can forget about words that won’t come.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 March 1, 2015 

Prayer of the Turtle

Oh, Lord, Most High,
You surely must have thought
I needed permanent protection, and
I do thank you for the intricate
design I am told I wear on my back.
I only wish this house I carry
did not weigh quite so much.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 February 1, 2015 

February

This is the season of sourgrass,
shy, lovely, beside the driveway.
Hanna gathers the stalks in her arms
like so many sheaves of daffodils
across her shoulder, green, gold.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 January 1, 2015 

A Very Little Thing

A very little thing is rolling
down the street at dawn,
some little yellow thing, a lemon,
rolling down the center
of the street from the little
grove just up the hill.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 October 1, 2014 

A Lovely Girl

There is a girl reading on the lawn.
Last week a cypress tree fell where she lies.
Now there is grass, and peace—the tree is gone.
And there’s a girl reading on the lawn.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 September 1, 2014 

Proposal in a Modest Meadow

Monkeyflower crowds the foot of a waterfall
(those buttercup faces, up to something),

and a dipper flies the bends of the creek
down to a veil of mountain hemlock.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 February 1, 2014 

Just after Groundhog Day

Just after Groundhog Day, summer begins
in Santa Barbara. Keen smells of blossoms
layer the air, the yellow bloom of mustard
weed and sourgrass and acacia fulfilling
their own prophecy on every side.

Read More
Posted by Paul J. Willis on
 January 1, 2014 

The Forest Primeval

I am five years old. It is a lamentable
week—or two weeks—after Christmas in Anaheim.
All the way around the block there are
Christmas trees at mute attention on the curb.

Read More
Next Page →