All
is quiet
in
the olive green larders; the
enamel
beaded, unlidded eye surveys
realms
of dim
sunlight between the
long
spindling
stems
trailing forever downward
into
the deepening
murk, the
pitch
darkness
where
vague stirrings,
unexpected presences
and
frequent disappearances deter.
Above,
languorous leaves burgle
the light;
all
day, all night, shiver wave, occasionally
convulse;
calm
or
turbulent, the leaves
and
surface
above them eternally synchronous.
All
is evening quiet through the patchwork
of
fields on the drumlins beneath a different sky;
the
humming of farm machinery has ceased,
the
farmers are deep in their dinner conversations
beside
kitchen windows
full of lush grass, moving
clouds
and hustled along sunshine. How
delicate
must
be their mark in this, the
world around
the
other world, the world
of discrepant life.
