On the first summer day I lay in the valley.
Above rocks the sky sealed my eyes with a
The grass licked my skin.
The flowers bound my
With scented cotton threads.
The soil
My hands and feet to grow down and have roots.
Bees and grass-hoppers drummed
Crepitations of thirst rising from dry stones,
And the ants rearranged my ceaseless
Into different patterns for ever the same.
Then the blue wind fell out of the
And the sun hammered down till I became of
Glistening brown beginning to warp.
On the second summer day I climbed through the
Huge tent pegged to the mountain-side by roots.
My direction was cancelled by that great sum of trees.
Here darkness lay under the leaves in a
Against light, which occasionally
Splintering spears through several
And dropping white clanging shields on the soil.
Silence was stitched through with thinnest pine
And bird songs were stifled behind a hot hedge.
My feet became as heavy as logs.
I drank up all the air of the forest.
My mind changed to amber transfixed with dead flies.
On the third summer day I sprang from the
Into the wonder of a white snow-tide.
Alone with the sun's wild whispering wheel,
Grinding seeds of secret light on frozen fields,
Every burden fell from me, the forest from my back,
The valley dwindled to bewildering
Seen through torn shreds of the sailing clouds.
Above the snowfield one rock against the
Shaped out of pure silence a naked
Like a violin when the tune forsakes the
And the pure sound flies through the ears'
And a whole sky floods the pool of one mind.
