I like some many of the lines in this poem, it is impossible for me to pick a favorite. Like a father with 21 children, I love them all.

Thinking about a poem I’ll never write.

Gary Snyder

 With gut on wood and hide, and plucking thumb, 

Grope and stutter for the words, invent a tune,

 In any tongue, this moment one time true

 Be wine or blood or rhythm drives it through—

 A leap of words to things and there it stops.

 Creating empty caves and tools in shops 

And holy domes, and nothing you can name;

 The long old chorus blowing underfoot 

Makes high wild notes of mountains in the sea. 

O Muse, a goddess gone astray 

Who warms the cow and makes the wise man sane,

 (& even madness gobbles demons down) 

Then dance through jewelled trees & lotus crowns

 For Narihira’s lover, the crying plover,

 For babies grown and childhood homes

 And moving, moving, on through scenes and towns

 Weep for the crowds of men

 Like birds gone south forever.

 The long-lost hawk of Yakamochi and Thoreau

 Flits over yonder hill, the hand is bare, 

The noise of living families fills the air.