There is a man carrying an armload of lilacs
across the field: he may be a lost Indian
as he is whistling, very beautifully, a tune
to the birds I have never heard. I am in back
of him, following at a distance. Three small quail,
perhaps hypnotized, rise and circle his head.
I want to stop the man and ask him what he said
to make them feel so safe, but I feel
weak and dizzy. His whistling begins to chill
my neck, as if the wind from his lips were
rushing round me. If only I were agile
like this family of field mice heading for
the river: still, I am not sorry I came here.

A lilac is falling like a piece of sky
from his arms; it seems to take ten minutes or more.
Finally it kisses the wet earth. I
start running—the lilac is waiting for me.
Here you are! I feel the first emotions of love.
And, look, a snail is holding on to your leaf
for all he’s worth. So slowly he moves,
humming a psalm to the god of snails.
The lilac swoons. The ground is sapphire
and the trees are topaz. I feel as if I were
attending my own funeral, the air a jail
of music and cool yellow fire.