The wind is not the pinewood, though its sound
Hums with the forest’s motion in the night;
That thrash is all the substance shifts of air
In darkness take.
(My thoughts aren’t words.)
For daylight. The hosts of heaven dip and wheel
Upon their silvered passages, they are
The sunbeams changed to fluted pollen on
The air. Is it enough to watch these threads
Of sight, fixed twine, internal swarm, and know
The warp and filament of their design
Eludes you? Light itself eludes you? Dust,
Parnassians and Whites flit fey among
The shadowed lower branches, cleaving braids
Of shifting brights and shade. It is enough.