What words or harder gift

    does the light require of me

    carving from the dark

    this difficult tree？

    What place or farther peace

    do I almost see

    emerging from the night

    and heart of me？

    The sky whitens， goes on and on.

    Fields wrinkle into rows

    of cotton， go on and on.

    Night like a fling of crows

    disperses and is gone.

    What song， what home，

    what calm or one clarity

    can I not quite come to，

    never quite see：

    this field， this sky， this tree.