Our current life lies in our eyes,

Like so many stacks and bales

Polarized by the summer skies

That wind around our hidden dales


And sweep across the vast extents

Of fallen hay and distant park

Like highland clouds behind a fence

That stretches on to growing dark,


Late day breezes ruffling wheat

Just before the coming snow,

An early winter sprung from heat

Where crops failed three times in a row,


The billowing, unreal day

Dancing on the tiny curve

Of a glass’s pale display,

Where furrows in the meadow swerve


Around the world’s transparent rim,

Miniature emotions tamed

By a len’s drunken whim,

Tinted, turned around, and framed,


As the season and the senses drown

In a wineglass, upside down.