come to the window look out and see
the valley turning green in remembrance
of all springs past and to come the woods
perfecting with immortal patience
the leaves that are the work of all of time
the sycamore whose white limbs shed
the history of a man's life with their old bark
the river quivering under the morning's breath
like the touched skin of a horse and you will see
also the shadow cast upon it by fire the war