My old poems—I liked them all

well enough when they were new.

They came through the air, I wrote them down,

and sent them on, as also I fed

the birds who stopped here to eat

as they were passing through. Now

I’m asked to read those poems again.

What for? They all are from the Country

of Déjà Vu, which is where

I have no need to go back to.

—Wendell Berry