This gray board fence turns blue in the evening light
And the sycamores reign down upon it their diadems,
And blue and green batter in wood and stems
The stems of light
Their green and golden gems.
At once, out of a million years of energy,
All turn to flesh,—board, gate, and branch—
With that quick sunset wrench
Which seems like chance,
Out of the fashion of an entropy.
If then the flesh is yours, as now it is,
I have lost yard, sunset, and all
Into a mild greeting, and I call
The sunset to your thought, to tell it is
Parent apparent to your rich apparel.