Poetry has become the language of my summer. As always, James Wright knows exactly how to speak to me:
The Moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
There they are, the Moon's young, trying
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
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.