The sunflower droops To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps; Then, moving in dazzling links and loops, A marvel of shadow and shine, A glory of olive and amber and wine, Runs the color in the wheat.
When the wild winds rumbled past you in the fall fields and you blessed them, you surrendered to splendor, when you lifted up your ruins on the old road remember the seasons
when the wind was new, when your hands were good fire in the hands of travelers,
A land of plenty, where Toward the sun, as hasting there, The colors run Before the wind's feet in the wheat.
Wind, as it sings you; kneel there, So faint and far it seems the drone Of bee or beetle, seems to come as you must have done, in your first world, when the wind
A cloud flies there— A swirl In the hollows like the twinkling feet Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run To the westward sun, Through the deeps of the ripening wheat was wind, when your ruin was a music—you who were no one, once, and colder,
and were open so wholly to the brokenness that you sang to whatever left you empty like the cello in the cello maker’s hands.