The pergola by Terry Cummings

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The pergola rests a weary man
Bound in wooden womb retained
Diffusing wind that clutches leaves, brown and gold
Retreated from the world around, removed from life
Finding clothes in time and pause
The man will smile and well worn smile
And snuggle into natures breast
And rest and rest
And rest and rest
Flickering light intrudes the eyes
Though closed to sight still draw the light
And birds and clouds and residue
Of microbe pore and shimmered oil
The twitching precious fragile hue
That is the door to worlds without
And now the man feels shoulders slump
Toward the earth