Green windmills spun by whistling wind —
Green windmills sunk knee-deep in soft, warm grass.
The sun-ball flames on a gold-haired giant’s palms,
heated lakes don’t fit their shores, and
unhayed meadows hum like seas — with milk, and honey.
Bright May thus celebrates his wedding, and
drunken bees at evenings no longer find their hives . . .

Let’s both go into the woods.
Here it’s quiet:
Black spruce branches droop to the ground. No warbling
from birds napping after noon — only in a thicket
the great heart of the forests pounding.
Hear it?
Her beats are heavy and uneasy.