Oh, how it buds,
grows within me.
The silent seed
of dead fruit.

It moves upward towards the light.
Thrusts through the blind clay
of my flesh.
Breaking,
inspiring my wooden tongue.

Again dark fall returns, replete with fruit, profusion,
The yellowed sheen of lovely summer days.
A clear blue steps from rotting husks;
The flight if birds whirrs with ancient myths.
Now wine’s pressed, the mild stillness
Is filled with low-voiced answers to dark questions.

And here and there a cross upon a wasted hill; a herd
Disperses into red woods. Over the fishpond’s
Mirror surface strays a cloud;
The farmer’s quiet gesture is at rest.
So gently the blue flight of evening stirs,
A roof of dry straw, black earth.

Soon stars nestle in the tired one’s eyebrows;
A quiet modesty in cool rooms
And angels stalk noiselessly out of the blue
Eyes of lovers, who more gently suffer.
A rustling of reeds; a bony horror attacks
As black dew drips from bare willow boughs.