(a poem for these times)
Like these great clouds that gravely fly, never
A draw of breath, but fly on; so the days
In the wilderness over the earth, now choked
By the white light of a desert noon, now
Almost still in the black midnight; but still
The body of man sprouted like cactus,
Sap fixed interminably - but living,
Emerging to make a world botanic!
The Son of Man - no totem in dead sand;
But blood that curled and coiled round no rhythms:
The desert had severed these; but fired
By one pole which was to make deserts bloom!
Then gravely the clouds gathered for the storm:
The white desert for the forty-first day.