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.