The poem
What is so utterly invisible as tomorrow? Not love, not the wind,
not the inside of a stone. Not anything. And yet, how often I'm fooled-- I'm wading along
in the sunlight-- and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining days ahead-- I can see the light spilling
like a shower of meteors into next week's trees, and I plan to be there soon-- and, so far, I am
just that lucky, my legs splashing over the edge of darkness, my heart on fire.
I don't know where such certainty comes from-- the brave flesh or the theater of the mind--
but if I had to guess I would say that only what the soul is supposed to be could send us forth
with such cheer as even the leaf must wear as it unfurls its fragrant body, and shines
against the hard possibility of stoppage-- which, day after day, before such brisk, corpuscular belief, shudders, and gives way.