Immaculate each leaf and every flower.
And everywhere the smaller birds again noising, filling steadily
in all the cracks between spells of rain, as if song
could still mean something useful or a kind of pleasure
that, like forgiveness, came easily.
And summer storm that forgiveness
is passed quickly through.
And the other song that has been your own voice saying no.
No, I'm not afraid.
What we cannot do, what we cannot undo,
all the work we must do as for ruin.
Yes, but faintly, the gray of doves, the gray
of doves in shadow.