The sea has its day, each night shifts in the stars. The air knows my name, a fading lyric of the grass. Days come to flower, waiting for the touch of the rains.

What wild cascade do I break on? I turn, moving into home. I feel this generation in life, this flower held in my hand.

And night falls soft on the field. I will hold on, abiding, will not leave the summer long, will remember the waves of green.

• Muriel Rukeyser