Sleeping Standing Up

The wind bends the grass to the ground. Hush. Did you hear it? The passionflower
can make quite a racket, but it’s too late
to shut the windows—the larger branches, like heaven, are hanging down.

There is an air of wild chatter now, its fact—past the land on the mountain,
or among the fields—everyone knew what they did as you measured all time by birds and breath.

You were always—while I was sleeping, ever so far from my dreams—there by the grass— tying up the little sprigs you picked.

Before bed,
in that passionate twilight, before you were there,
you stood before a big basket—late enough
that the humor of dawn was encased
a kindness more than beauty.

You would come closer than then.

And though it is shadowed here, you bring the basket back to the others in another world—while I raised my head too long
in sleep; hold it only lightly—gently placed. I can’t remember ever wishing
for what breath could ever be breathed by soiled hands beneath the dark; I longed to be another tree when it, too, was sleeping.

• Elizabeth Bishop