This poem is called "Crucifixion."
"You understand the colors on the hillside have faded.
We have the gray and brown and lavender of late autumn.
The apple and pear trees have lost their leaves.
The mist of November is often with us,
especially in the afternoon and toward evening
as it was today when I sat gazing up
into the orchard for a long time, the way I do now.
Thinking of how I died last winter and was revived.
And I tell you I saw there a cross with a man nailed to it.
Silvery in the mist, and I said to him, are you the Christ,
and he must have heard me for in his agony twisted
as he was, he nodded his head affirmatively up and down,
once and twice.
And a little way off, I saw another cross
with another man nailed to it, twisting and nodding, and then
another, and another.
Ranks and divisions of crosses straggling
like exhausted legions upward among the misty trees,
each cross with a silvery writhing, twisting, nodding,
naked, figure nailed to it, and some of them were women.
The hill was filled with crucifixion.
Should I not be telling you this?
Is it excessive?
But I know something about death now.
I know how silent it is, silent even when
the pain is shrieking and screaming
and tonight is very silent and very dark.
When I looked, I saw nothing out there, only
my own reflected head nodding a little in the window glass.
It was as if the Christ had nodded to me,
all those writhing silvery images on the hillside,
and after a while, I nodded back to him."