This one is from Amy Clampitt's book Westward (1990), another favorite of mine. Clampitt, who died in 1994, is an interesting poet in part because, as I recollect, she didn't start publishing until she was in her 60s. She also happens to be an alumna of my alma mater, and we're all about giving shout-outs to fellow Grinnellians.
Portola Valley
A dense ravine, no inch
of which was level until
some architect niched in this
shimmer of partition, fishpond
and flowerbed, these fording-
stones' unwalled steep staircase
down to where (speak softly) you
take off your shoes, step onto
guest-house tatami matting,
learn to be Japanese.
There will be red wine,
artichokes, and California
politics for dinner; a mocking-
bird may whisper, a frog rasp
and go kerplunk, the shifting
inlay of goldfish in the court-
yard floor add to your vertigo;
and deer look in, the velvet
thrust of pansy faces and vast
violet-petal ears, inquiring,
stun you without a blow.
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