Classic Poem

In the morning rain
the oxcart drivers mildly cross my farm
and our universal neighbor burns amorously with its lover.

I'm imagining how the high swollen brooks
will spill down to the rivers.

The huge crystal hand of the rain sweeps the tiled roofs
How easy to feel lazy on these days
and keep a woman in the kitchen.

Poor chickens that bellywhopped from the tree
and ran under the house to shake themselves dry.

I will behave and bring the corn;
then go inside with some of the rain and drink the soup
while I feel the entrance of the earth —
wet and deep, naked and fragrant —
and the memory of it like a wide heavy rain.