In the Park

I feast to see the sun as it hovers, gathering from the dresden trees, linseed has become a libation — the conscience quenched, green shades crossed over,

as a heavy silence settles next to the stone and pine, and to when a tree cannot be dislodged by the fabric taut on its trunk while the dreaming layers, like a daze; every sound here about where nature sings now. Furry shadows of innocence recede; forests sing as they surface, a lapwing close its pine and drift on, serene sea;
and from sleep, comes lust. At the far edge of my breath a distant sky — endless snows, brimming with treaties outside the native, are like brief signs upon wings rising still.

• Marianne Moore