—for W.S. Merwin
Out under clouds in the broad wheatfield
is a certain breed of silence
where only the perfectly hushed
give voice
Wind through the stalks
A sound of colors blending everywhere
in fine webs of shadow and light
After hours here you can start to sense
God’s breathing
like slow shifts in the clockwork
of ancient life
Then you may leave your body
as you lie in the delicate wheat
to return and find yourself
new once more
as you were long ago
your eyes wide
in the freshly formed world
