The last of the day is weathered, A graying sky draping over my heart, Where the green earth hugs the damp, And the clouds cradle the birds.

I walk among the waving grass, Each blade is a kiss from the sun, Urging me to holler out my lost praise, To thank the evening blooming small flowers—a stir, Maybe a little whisper of a rise from sleep.

• Gwendolyn Brooks