what we've made
yet moves beyond us
and we in awe dismay
attached to it by eyes and soul alone
no longer fingertip how
the thrown leaves touch,
leaves expectation of touch,
to whirl leafs
so come, we are the wind
who wove those sails
but movement is our breath
to stop would be to cease
and what we don't let go
we lose in holding
this hour
at which nothing can be done
the songbirds calling
the crickets answering
to work, to work!
outside this room
the chill of grace
lies heavy on the morning grass
after John Adams