Classic Poem

It has not rained.
The fields lie powdered
under smoke and clouds.
The swamps are peopled
with smouldering cedar
reflected on black, hoarded water.
The furrow in the field
behind the negro's heels
smokes, as though the plowshare stirred
embers in the earth.
As the furrow lengthens;
the rising powder fades to sky-dust
below the powdered sky.
This spongy land is parched
and draws the salt sea to it,
up all its earthy rivers.
It drinks brine, like a thirsty goat.
The river reeds are withered.
It is April in the meadows
but, in the empty rice fields
it is Winter.
The roots of the cedars drink
slow fire under the sod.
A flame seeps up the core,—
a tall tree falls.
From the bark, the white smoke bleeds.
Midway between midnight and daybreak
the sky egg cracks across.
Goats move in sleep.
Night then speaks with one dry hoom.
The goats veer in their steps and stir
fire-flies from live oak trees
with their small lightnings.
One horned beast trots from the herd
more in disdain than fright
into the open, a little distance foraging.
The old devil knows
despite that bright, slow, loud antiphon
it will not rain.