White clouds hang between mountains like sheets:
The sky is airing its laundry.
Clouds between mountains drift like snow;
The valley is alive with the pulse of the cicada.
Even the jacked-up hood
over the testy engine
Even the bee
Alongside the Delhi runway
where flying birds dodge
the wings of planes,
egrets and peacocks, pacing,
the take-off of the Dreamliner jet:
while green grows the grass,
come what may.
First the straw, then the seed:
Dark soil hides the seed like buried pirate’s gold.
One day, the seedling stretches its neck to pop
through the tiny seedcoat. First the water,
then the light, draws the seedlings up through soil
like needle piercing canvas.
Among green and yellow stems,
wind and bee disperse the pollen.
Next, sun draws the grasses green
until her heat shades them yellow.
First the scythe, then the straw
to overwinter in the barn.