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Continual Conversation With A Silent Man

 The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on the hill.
As if, in the presence of the sea, We dried our nets and mended sail And talked of never-ending things, Of the never-ending storm of will, One will and many wills, and the wind, Of many meanings in the leaves, Brought down to one below the eaves, Link, of that tempest, to the farm, The chain of the turquoise hen and sky And the wheel that broke as the cart went by.
It is not a voice that is under the eaves.
It is not speech, the sound we hear In this conversation, but the sound Of things and their motion: the other man, A turquoise monster moving round.

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