the love song of the field late summer
Enter the secret field with its hidden animals.
The lute song of the fields, late summer
in love what it is: not destined
for more greatness than this.
Despair is nothing
but overgrown peach blossoms,
nectar so sweet,
you wear it like a crown.
This falling in love happens fast I know.
I didn’t come here for less than this
crown of glory, would I be you
the mountains and the rivers.
It rises over me;
trident of wild geese, trident of river water,
come home again.
The still one in the temple stays still,
clouds pass with rain, then no rain,
the world offers fire flowers,
music boxes filled with wings,
and how could I miss
laying in these tall grasses,
reading the secrets inside
the slow passing gaze of wind.
Tell me, when is it, when will you come?
woodstock, late august
draft 1