The wind behind the window moves the leaves.
James with his cockleshell or Genevieve
a fraction westward move each day
in ruby beads,
a rosary let fall (with lily, germander, and sops-in-wine)
decade by decade through the year
across the wall, along the floor.
The figures ripple and the colors quicken.
In cloud or dark invisible
yet moving always, and in light
east by west or west by east
day after day
constant in pilgrimage. The wind
behind the window moves
the leaves, the bare
branches stir or hold
their breath, their buds,
up to remotest stars.
And dustmote congregations file
endlessly through the slanted amethyst.