Back from a walk with Dawn, the daylight was just going.
Dawn stopped to pick a couple of weeds.
A tiny frog or toad hopped oh twenty times its length in front of me,
one more hop and it was in the barberry bush.
I thought, and muttered “poetry consists of ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them,’”
so that Dawn said, “What?”
Did Marianne Moore say that, or did William Butler Yeats,
or was one quoting the other?
Was this garden at dusk a real or imaginary garden?
Had that tiny toad been real or a dream?
Was this entire moment any more than a dream?
When young, one gets the potential validity of the idea
of the butterfly who dreamed he was a philosopher dreaming of being a butterfly,
but I find in my advanced years that no, I really feel as if I can’t tell
if I am philosopher or butterfly or what.
Then we went inside and made love and after that watched half of a movie.
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