Rural Reflections

The poem

This is the grass your feet are planted on. You paint it orange or you sing it green, But you have never found A way to make the grass mean what you mean.

A cloud can be whatever you intend: Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye. But you have never found A cloud sufficient to express the sky.

Get out there with your splendid expertise; Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less. Inhuman nature says: Inhuman patience is the true success.

Human impatience trips you as you run; Stand still and you must lie. It is the grass that cuts the mower down; It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.