Heir

This gray board fence turns blue in the evening light And the sycamores reign down upon it their diadems, And blue and green batter in wood and stems The stems of light Their green and golden gems. At once, out of a million years of energy, All turn to flesh,—board, gate, and branch— With that quick sunset wrench Which seems like chance, Out of the fashion of an entropy. If then the flesh is yours, as now it is, I have lost yard, sunset, and all Into a mild greeting, and I call The sunset to your thought, to tell it is Parent apparent to your rich apparel. August 1954