I Went Down to the Mowing Field

All redounding to Their praise

(resounding through the brakes and rills)
from whom I can’t avert my gaze.

Fading in and out of phase
(panning movies, shooting stills),
all redounding to Their praise.

Heart-sung, the hymns I’ve raised.
Light from that image overspills,
from which I can’t avert my gaze.

Birch-bark enamel, crazed;
lake that, filling, overfills—
all redounding to Their praise.

Cast in my allotted days,
sweating in exhausted mills,
from which I can't extract my gaze.

Twilight purples the sun's rays,
and the black serpent strikes and kills,
all redounding to Their praise
from whom I can’t avert my gaze.