Now wind torments¹ the field，

    turning the white surface back

    on itself， back and back on itself，

    like an animal licking a wound.

    Nothing but white——the air， the light；

    only one brown milkweed pod

    bobbing in the gully， smallest

    brown boat on the immense tide.

    A single green sprouting² thing

    would restore me. . . .

    Then think of the tall delphinium，

    swaying， or the bee when it comes

    to the tongue of the burgundy lily.