Not that we prepared for it, or at first
noticed in the papery rustle
of the cottonwoods our shutters allowed,
or through coffee on the terrace,
in the mist of a garden hose trained on
lavender and roses, and glistening.
Still we are ready-equally in need-
of such quietness to be received.
And virtually to breathe it in the blue
fumaturo rising from the tilth
of vineyards and olive groves, the dreamy
plumes of cypress and whitening grains,
inviting and warranting increases
of thanks-under such circumstances,
to feel a native force, like remembrance,
inquiring for the proper name of praise.
