What words or harder gift
does the light require of me
carving from the dark
this difficult tree？
What place or farther peace
do I almost see
emerging from the night
and heart of me？
The sky whitens， goes on and on.
Fields wrinkle into rows
of cotton， go on and on.
Night like a fling of crows
disperses and is gone.
What song， what home，
what calm or one clarity
can I not quite come to，
never quite see：
this field， this sky， this tree.