What of these words

printed in a darkened room,

what of the light coming in under the door,

what of the field beyond,

and you; what of you?

See the moon, who looks down upon us;

she watches her children

without remorse or direction.

We are seedlings under the summer willow-

me, thrown with the rocks

as the horse paws the earth

of the field that lies fallow around us;

and you, rooted in the rich ground,

bending in the wind, arms raised

in appeal to heaven each night.