Anam Cara

ELEMENTAL

Is the word the work

Of someone who tills the blue field,

Unearths its dark plenitude

For the tight seed to release its thought

Into the ferment of clay,

Searching to earth the light

And come to voice in a word of grain

That can sing free in the breeze,

Bathe in the yellow well of the sun,

Avoid the attack of the bird,

And endure the red cell of the oven

Until memory leavens in the gift of bread?