Fields that sing

Ornaments wear out, even glass Clouds, the silver ball is Crazed, the tinfoil bell, Handbound with thread, has Torn, the crayoned angel No more looks down without her Paper head. Still, who could ask, With reason, that these Dumb shells hold Life or season? Fear not the pretty Ornaments that wear and break. You not they hear fields That sing, see stars Veer over us and speak Affinity for one who Brings more light.