THE plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the
lawn;
The cloud sheaves
in heaven’s fields set
droop and are
drawn
in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my
face
falling — I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace
Heaven’s muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the
grain
of tears, the store harvested
in the sheaves of
pain
caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are
slain
now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna
invisible
of all the pain
here to us given;
finely divisible
falling as rain.