Beginning

The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.

by James Arlington Wright

Comments (2)

A poem about the otherness of the world, a strangeness that may be transcended temporarily by one who has the proper amount of humility and acceptance. Compare Danse Russe by W. C. Williams.
James Wright is an icon for the generation. Worthy of full consideration by anyboyd who claims to love poetry.