Four Ways of Writing a Poem

My son picks up an acorn, puts it in a pot

with composted soil from the garden,

sets it by the kitchen window,

waters it daily to watch it sprout

two light green leaves, a miniature

oak tree on my windowsill for weeks,

until it dies.

My friend the midwife

says she is present for births,

takes no credit, knows

the mothers do all the work,

bear all the pain.

III

The robins hiding in the pear tree near my window

are up before dawn, singing their songs.

In the pauses I hear the mourning doves’ coos

or a far-off robin’s answer,

or the background chattering

of the wrens who sing for no reason

we can discern.

I make a mushroom-barley soup—

the mushrooms and the barley

go into the pot a half-hour

before we eat. What cooked all day

is the soup.

Squinting in Dim Light