Other days will come, the silence
of plants and of planets will be understood,
and so many pure things will happen!
Violins will have the fragrance of the moon!
Maybe the bread will be like you:
it will have your voice, your wheat,
and other things-the lost horses
of autumn-will speak with your voice.
And even if it’s not what you’d prefer, exactly,
love will fill huge barrels
like the ancient honey of the shepherds,
and there in the dust of my heart (where
so many plentiful things will be stored),
you will come and go among the melons.