The time of orange nights is gone, faded
the waves of grain swirl in midday.
the rain, the river, puddles have fled
to the depths that never freeze.
The songs of the wood are still,
the sky empty until a sudden flock
circles over one invisible spot.
The buzz of insect, bumble of pollen bee
dance silent now. No more cries,
laughs, conversations drifting on
perfumed breezes, the wood is empty;
the wind is empty and howling.
Brooks’ ripples are still, though they still run.
The fish still dream, white lilies float
somewhere else. The beans are run, the roses
last petals shed, saying, “this is all that
I can give.”
Sing a song to make bulbs and
seeds laugh, charm crusts for sparrows;
dream the dream that is sun soft fields;
love as you have always loved. The ice above
our heads means the dream is real. We must
swim. The time of harvest awaits us.