The seed packets’ children have gone.
I hear them, at the place I heard the world shine.
Shining in the gashes, in the earth-folds,
lost with such confidence!
All the confidence of a hoof print—holy print,
I meant, in mud by the dam’s side.
Little pond-world in a print-shape
reflecting the constellations.
Lightning joins thunder in reflex.
St. Elmo’s fire at the cattle’s horn tips
makes blue-white reflect on the dam,
seen early—only—by them.
She’s radiating the showing, she’s crackling.
Little tipping cup, little empty dipper
pouring out. I thought it was a sown thing
a certain sown thing—but it’s not
but it’s not