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.