The spindle trees

Write quiet messages

On the low cloud

As the sparse birds search

For their fortune tokens

In the brittle light soil.

 

Remembered maidens worry

About their imperfections

Whilst on the brink of beauty

As the mystic cartmen

Celebrate the dead blossom air.

 

At the inn of all seasons

The men of the fields discuss

The thoughts of their ale

In relation to the wind

As a dormouse reads about sleep

In the reclining roots of its cradle.