Transformations

At night a green ring is humming,

a circle dipping between pines,

singing over a floor of needles;

it moves, a litany of insects,

in praise of full July.

By day, leaning there in dry grass,

you stretch out your hand;

you see wide wings on stalks,

wider wings in air.

They pause in the heat for you,

waiting for dark, knowing you will come.

The noon-air splits

with your coming, no illusion.

Till the earth warms roots, and you,

till the sun drops and a green ring rises,

you will stand like a trunk, immobile;

but they find you, and ring you,

and give you their shape and their light

till you are the shape of the month,

the clay and needles and sap,

the stalks and cups at noon,

even the luminous wings.