She tumbled down from the bales
In the barn. She knocked—Hello?
The yellow perch frisked in the pails,
Trailing histories ghosts and souls,
Twisting into letter shapes,
Hello? They knock speak, speak,
From the floor, from the bottom of the drapes,
And the words, they rush they flow
They gush down the furrow, and
The vegetables grow, a profusion
Of leaves, tomatoes, squash, planned and unplanned,
The water ringing, the rain bears down,
It beats upon the rills,
And the fields stretch out, and the leaves glisten,
Until they rise into the teeming hills.