Not that we prepared for it, or at first

noticed in the papery rustle

of the cottonwoods our shutters allowed,

or through coffee on the terrace,

in the mist of a garden hose trained on

lavender and roses, and glistening.

Still we are ready-equally in need-

of such quietness to be received.

And virtually to breathe it in the blue

fumaturo rising from the tilth

of vineyards and olive groves, the dreamy

plumes of cypress and whitening grains,

inviting and warranting increases

of thanks-under such circumstances,

to feel a native force, like remembrance,

inquiring for the proper name of praise.