Gazed through the window and
Drank in the evening sky.
He dreamed
Of a thunderhead.
He bled sweat,
Dripped salted water
On his work,
And saw
Fresh water lakes
Run off fresh from glaciers
High in imagined mountains
--- Icy pure,
Chilled to warm man's soul.
He wove a hailstone from his mind,
An apple from his dreams,
And a chilled beer-filled pitcher,
Tied them all up in his basket
And wove them out of sight.
He dreamed,
And unshapely as he dreamed,
The basket yet grew
And grew precise
And absorbed
Every drop of sweat
And every glance of his tiring eye.
It sat whole in the night
As he wove
More dreams,
Was carted off by day
As he wove
More baskets.
