Fruit, Flower: Bud and Bloom

There is something new moving:

Out of the wind, which spoke all night to the silent waters reflecting only on the moon,
The waters that could not see the grass encroaching on the borders of its stream,
Nor even the Ocean, that immense pool of the moon into which they were flowing,
Nor even themselves, but only themselves as they were illuminated by moon-light,

Out of this wind, I say, comes the warmth of the Sun in broad-strokes,
Painting over the doubled chrome of the midnight with a color
That blackness could not have predicted,
Self-absorbed and all-absorbing as she was,
Nor white, though his radiance contained all things,

And in this picture of the dawn
The world will be as different from itself
As the night is from the day.