Here you will find thePoemIn California: Morning, Evening, Late Januaryof poet Denise Levertov
Pale, then enkindled, light advancing, emblazoning summits of palm and pine, the dew lingering, scripture of scintillas. Soon the roar of mowers cropping the already short grass of lawns, men with long-nozzled cylinders of pesticide poking at weeds, at moss in cracks of cement, and louder roar of helicopters off to spray vineyards where braceros try to hold their breath, and in the distance, bulldozers, excavators, babel of destructive construction. Banded by deep oakshadow, airy shadow of eucalyptus, miner's lettuce, tender, untasted, and other grass, unmown, luxuriant, no green more brilliant. Fragile paradise. . . . . At day's end the whole sky, vast, unstinting, flooded with transparent mauve, tint of wisteria, cloudless over the malls, the industrial parks, the homes with the lights going on, the homeless arranging their bundles. . . . . Who can utter the poignance of all that is constantly threatened, invaded, expended and constantly nevertheless persists in beauty, tranquil as this young moon just risen and slowly drinking light from the vanished sun. Who can utter the praise of such generosity or the shame?
