A Feather

Though you can be displeased with conclusions,
I urge you to accept wind that scours,
Crumbling stones, sand that digs until it blinds:

If, by chance, desolation is hated-
Noble friends, do not believe that my hands

Built this desert, nor that it will disappear;

If what has been shown is not beautiful,

I will give you trees on cold spring mornings

Blowing dry flame as kisses on the boughs-

Wrens die underneath the claws of housecats.

I become tall in dark, ruined landscapes.