Let me walk through the fields of paper
touching with my wand
dry stems and stunted
butterflies—

let Sluggard Acre send up
sunflowers among its weeds,
ten foot high—let its thistles
display their Scottish magnificence,
mauve tam-o’-shanters and barbed plaids—

yes, set fire to frostbitten crops,
drag out forgotten fruit
to dance the flame-tango,
the smoke-gavotte,
to live after all—

let the note elephant become a song,
the white beast wiser than man
raise a dust in the north woods,
loping on corduroy roads to the arena.