In her upper room she wrote a poem. To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee. Under the amazing blue sky
the long grass slopes, bends,
is lifted by the wind,
the constant wind in whose motion
the vast body is never at rest
trying out the figures of a timeless dance
yet lies all its great size in great peace, as if it had lost count of the hours of the day
to rain, or was waiting for that New England clover and a bee to blow in.