The song comes over me like a wheatfield, my face
brushed by golden stalks

My spirit moves forward like a blind one and when
things touch me...I see them

How could I know there was so much tenderness
hidden in things, in my flesh?

How could I know the love of the white paint for
the porch of the house where it clings
and flakes? How could I know my daughter
would come back?

How could I know about the air or the inquiring,
efficient blood, returning to the cells?

I see the love of the pale blue wind for our clothes,
blown out from the line,

The wind loves our house, whistling through tiny
cracks, blowing steadily toward us.

There is something in me that listens and stirs.
Everything flows, grasping. Everything is
a kind of attachment, a music; time aching
through us.

It is too much to feel. I put down my pad. Even
breathing is a kind of ceaseless music.

I see we cannot rest, ever. We seek for love,
continually, carried along like dust, swept
across lakes. How did I ever come to be
here, to know these people, to love them?

Our need for love exceeds us, reaching ahead,
dark hair blowing like a torch in the halls
of the old castle. It goes ahead, looking
for signs, listening, searching.

And then the wind catches it suddenly and lifts it,
swift and beautiful, carries it far out over
the lakes — sail without a boat, banner
of our incorrigible longings.