The red soil rises in the garden
Upon a wrought and coiling mist,
Then collects the stems of morning light:
Old Future's endless sift.

These mornings when the flood plains swell
Instil great peace of mind;
Tireless are the crossroads of
Transpiring, morning light.

Set down the blade,
Spread far the grain,
Inhale the rice-fed air;
Now rake the water's fervent edge,
Revealing waves of golden.