The Solicitude of Solitude
If this sun were smoke it would be a shawl
spread between the olive trees, if the trees were gazelles
they’d be perched on graceful legs of frosted dew;
but the sun is beaten bronze, the leaves are silver chalices.
The sheep yearn to throw their baritone voices
up into the white sky like doves to make it blue
and now it was then, and then it was now,
in this hammock slung across the sun between the clouds.