Hour after hour in a rocking-chair on the porch,
hearing the wind in the shade trees.

At times a storm comes up and the dust is blown in long curves along the street,
over the carts driven slowly, drivers and horses nodding.
Years are thrown away as if I were immortal,
the nights spent in talking
shining words, sometimes, like fireflies in the darkness—
lighting and going out and after all no light.