To Betsy

You might be

A brown leaf on a tree,

Or a small shy hare

Standing attentive there.

Almost I see

One ear lopped down and the other ear upstanding.

Almost I hear

Ripple and glimmer and the long slow tremor

Of the air.

Five-petalled hands

Blown carelessly like blossoms on a vine,

In you the darkling wine

Of summer expands;

Blood of the summer-

Never the murmur and the restless rumor

Of mine.

You move with a rhythm that is never-ending, |

Like brown wheat you move in a warm wind.

I look to find

Fine brown roots from your small brown toes descending.