Out of the west the evening-colored air
Made a music box out of the treetops
wind harp out of the stars
Velvet waters tumble out from the fountainhead of
Inspiration and played [bad word] 
Wordless song on the river sighing
Forgotten the pipes and the flutes of the dying
The air is alive with the stirrings and turnings
Of phrase in the twilight like petals flying
Into the waters and dreamily floating

The poet felled him a tree
He felled him a fir and was shriven
He drew from pine his boat
Simple, imperfect, with evergreen dressing the air
He fashioned boards from his longing, and
Sacrificed food and rest for ever

He forgot himself
Distaste in this thing surrounding him
Decay
The poet amidst the musical waters
Became the song and what he had
Dreamt of being all along