POEM AS IT HAPPENS rain gets to fill the spaces used by weather snow is allowed to melt by the air's rising temperature a hillslope accepts some rain and sends the rest away I see a sapling still hanging on to its brown leaves in the middle of winter is it me now I must stop and think a pleasure not to know what is next or where to end but only how to divide and multiply the moments I was eight when I learned division I loved my teacher Mrs. Fry I drew a portrait and gave it to her