Having been washed and washed, the air glitters;
small heaped cumuli blow across the sky; a shower
visible against the firs douses the crocuses.
We knew it would happen one day this week.
Now, when I learn you have died, I go
to the open door and look across at New Hampshire
and see that there, too, the sun is bright
and clouds are making their shadowy ways along the horizon;
and I think: How could it not have been today?
The poet's voice is the public part of his art. As Kinnell explains it, "When you're writing, you're not very aware of an audience. No doubt it's around the fringes of your consciousness, that you are setting out to make something whose eventually destiny is to touch the hearts of people who will read it. But that disappears as you get deeper into the writing, which is a process of making, of constructing an object which will contain a version of the truth.