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.