The sun is bowing into the feet of Old Indian,
while I, the Crystal Autumn wind
entreat the weeping grasses:
“O come! Yield up thy quiet fruits
to my restless bosom
that I may scatter them
under broken Summer’s gaze,
there to brood with thine inner breath
‘till Mistress Spring’s green brows arise.
Give up thy yellowed husk,
cast off rusted leaves of flesh
and turn instead to the slow-fire within
whose imperishable light is the warmth of creation!”