The field was bare, And the wind swirled the seeds Of a thought, grown thick; What I remember is the intent, Silhouettes of trees angled, And the grasses bent low— A universe of tiny whispers, Round and round. The track winds, A narrow bit of river, left to itself; Still, it flows, twisted, curling, Through the pulse of silence. It sweeps through our hands,
To fall again. Each stolen corner, filled With shades of green. The wild petals are curved;
They stretch, slender fingers. What is left is merely White light and stalks of grass.

• Margaret Atwood