After rain, after many days without rain,
It stays cool, private and cleansed, beneath the trees.

The dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground.

Where it will disappear — but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share.

The white threads of the grasses, and the moss cushion, too
A few drops, round as pearls, captured find a mole’s tunnel.

Soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years, 
Will feel themselves being touched.