“I put out my hand and stroke
the fine, dry grit of their skins.
After all,
we are partners in this land,
co-signers of a covenant.
At my touch the wild
braid of creation
trembles.’’
— From “The Snakes of September,’’ by Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006). A U.S. poet laureate, Mr Kunitz, who grew up in Worcester, divided much of his time between New York City and Provincetown, where he had a famous garden.