She has come to me. So says the smell of field grass. She has come to me in the night. So says the night. She has come bearing her silence. I wish she were not so silent, for when I call her name I hear the wind, calling her name; I hear night birds, whistling for her. They fly off as I come near. I hear the sea on the meadow, and the sea is telling me that she has come to me. She has come with all her secrets. I wish she were not so secret. I search between birch trees, where the moon falls. I come near a spring. She carries wildflowers in her hands. Her eyes are the color of the field grass. She has come to me, and here darkness gathers. It gathers dew from the meadow; it gathers the shadows of trees; it gathers all her silences, and I know her secrets; I know they are my own.
April 1973