Lilacs and Iris and things.
Winter toughened and storm mildew.
With features that the world fan would embody.
Work in what I would to take happiness to root.
Or what winds in this place plan to seek out?
Stock in wind do cherish your amount.
As comprehensible as frost above the outlying work.
And I thought of the farmer who they said,
"She threw sacks on her back."
Yet I knew good stuff came from good soil.
Put in burlaps.
And as to my employ not to thunder overhead
was a good hope to go ahead.
Compatable as the lopes of green.
Where eyes meet at a corner of ground
a pyramidal stream.
When I thought, "Nope, she was already there."
Other than suggest my eye as elsewhere.
So I emptied the burlap and the lilacs and plants
and iris and things.
A beam fed a place with feelings.
A steadyness now here.