Heir

This gray board fence turns blue in the evening light

And the sycamores reign down upon it their diadems,

And blue and green batter in wood and stems

The stems of light

Their green and golden gems.

At once, out of a million years of energy,

All turn to flesh,—board, gate, and branch—

With that quick sunset wrench

Which seems like chance,

Out of the fashion of an entropy.

If then the flesh is yours, as now it is,

I have lost yard, sunset, and all

Into a mild greeting, and I call

The sunset to your thought, to tell it is

Parent apparent to your rich apparel.