In the blue barn, a ripe thing grows cold.
The road works up eastward, land-trust territory

and a bell is light prophesied. Embankment
down, you have to dig your feet in sideways to get to the spot

where the algae stream delegates jade orders to snow
and the melt has always just begun. No Spring, they say,

just fixtures of the new world and the other world in heat.
There is a steeple over that blue barn, there must be

in order for the young cows to produce milk. It goes this way
for monks and nuns, those times when it is easiest to want

for nothing, these times when it is even selfish
to put the sliver of another ancient moon in slow green ice

cycling somewhere over Vienna or Roxbury, Connecticut
for an old sow to regard when she feeds.