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.