Now wind torments the field,

turning the white surface back

on itself, back and back on itself,

like an animal licking a wound.



Nothing but white--the air, the light;

only one brown milkweed pod

bobbing in the gully, smallest

brown boat on the immense tide.



A single green sprouting thing

would restore me. . . .



Then think of the tall delphinium,

swaying, or the bee when it comes

to the tongue of the burgundy lily.

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