Of the firm landscape
Men see much
But hold little for sure
What they learn is grown
Before work
Gathers them into a field
Each one admires
A settling
In place, and never going
From the land, all know
There comes not
A house, a room, a pillow
No tractor forms,
Foliaged
With rust, from the earth alone
No post-box rises
From sheathed leaves
Like a new, humble flower
No telephone poles
Mark a road
Back to where all life started
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