Another little poem from long ago (found in Way Stations).


Vines tremble in the night
around the house's wooden doors,
rustling in the soft breeze, whispering.

Otherwise, not a sound. The high
moon stands over the hurrying clouds,

motionless in the central dark;

the wind tries everywhere for a resting
place, vainly turning over leaves;

and someone stands there in the shadows
looking out at the dry garden, listening
to vine-limbs creak in the night air.