The silent scent of twilight in the spring;
The sky’s transparent gray beyond the hills;
The blazing ridge, our mother’s cedar chest
Of sunshine; there a speckled field of crow
And hay; the drafting hawk on drooping wing
That far above the reticent earth shrills
A drifting cry, below the tree line, west….
Our cradling earth—only this one I know—
For which the boundless hours I could sing
Unending love—sweet love—which life compels.
And I asleep upon my mother’s breast
Of lapping midnights, wrapped in winter’s throws,
Will, with the quiet chorus of my heart,
Yield back the dawn that endless dusks impart.