All the shapes love seeks
and their motions -- rustle of windblown
grass, color of leaf, lifted year
by year to the sun, pattern
of lichen-stained bark,
dead leaves, borne in feathers --
must lie fallow and insensate.
There is no pain in this for branch
or green-jewelled hummingbird: all bear
fruit, themselves, their kind,
without time, except the one
walking behind the harrow,
turning the ground of his heart,
full of knowledge but still composed
of what has filled so many forms
and lies barren under his feet,
yet with his arms kept to the handles
unconscious, with all of nature,
of his own true shape
and how it resembles
the tree whose fruit is all the world,
Alle Freuden, die unendlichen,
Alle Schmerzen, die unendlichen, ganz.

(cdm | CrossingTheCentralValley)