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.