Now the yellowy angel stills
the swifts from their jabber and swoop,
soothes the air from the pear tree's highest boughs
to the shocks of plantain
in the sidewalk cracks, crouched
without a stir.
Good silence she wills in late afternoon.
Good silence swaddled soon in the robin's weird devotions—
Cheer and O.
Even the power lines must buzz in praise.
And the sage, who droops for lack of rain,
bows green in deference.
The slip of borage opens blue and spreads.
Yes, she lies down thick in yellow blooms
that will be the long fruits.
She sleeps among squash.
And the people doze midday in awe of her.
They fear no end. They fear no persistence.
And the people wait like buds in her name.