Through the open window the rangy beams
float down sleep, clarifying bone
as varnish wakens woodgrain.

From ancient myths mute dreams
rise bluely into the air . . .
as imagined smoke trailing tunes
from woodwind instruments

and Rainer Maria Rilke
ever brooding in his gauzy grove

O the music and the roses and the fear!

The face is pale . . . the face is gone; only the
 impress of a garden,
and overhead a singing of "Amazing Grace"
trailing a musty dolor before the dawning,
before the bold reminding green of morning . . .

And everyone everywhere walking his way on tiptoe,
breaking bread with his shadow.