A bed, like a field, is open to weather:
too much rain will bruise the fruit.
To plant thanks, to sing to plenty,
I will trickle seeds over your head.
Too much rain will bruise the fruit.
White lilies lean below the water
while I trickle seeds over your head,
I watch night close your green eyes.
White lilies lean below the water
seeping through the widening lip.
I praise the food of sleep, I study
what makes the body root.
Seeping through the widening lip,
water spoons down the shore’s back.
To learn what makes the body root,
we will sit, wait the whole night.
Too much rain will bruise the fruit.
Water spoons up the shore’s back.
We sit the whole night, two sparks —
like a field, a bed yields to weather.