Set out in an old island garden behind boxwood hedges

Were all the small carved applewood animals to buy,

And I bought three, a hound, a mule, and a wild duck.

Boys and old men last winter under the Carolina ledges

Knifed them out of the hard wood, and I wondered why.

Not for money-they cost so little. Maybe for luck.

The grain of the wood slides all round the small duck

From the bent snaky neck to the fat feathered tail.

But applewood shines the same in hound or mule.

Maybe for love. I thought, yes, maybe the carver, struck

By his own thought of the dog, climbed a fence rail,

Sat, and cut to what wood meant to be, in the cool

Of the mountain evening, looking over the valley, alone.

Hundreds of miles from there, and a long year later,

I stare and rub fondly the mule, the duck, the hound.

Drawn grain of applewood follows the mule's bone,

Hauled back, stubborn. Wood makes the hound a waiter,

A hunter for faint clues but true on the world's ground.

Something wild in an old man's heart I think cut wings

For the wild bird, and for me, for the flying in my mind.

Being stubborn, I bought the mule. I know how I will not.

The hound in my hand searches for me for the next things

I almost have, must have, will send him out to find.

Buying the three, I was the three meanings that I bought.