On Solitude

Solitude, how you come to me as a gift!
Not as some lonely orchid, mild and gray,
surrounded by gray ash far
in a vast plot built solely for thee,
but as yourself indulging in nothing full
or full of me, in a great cavern full of flame,
or a quiet dusk that is caught in rain.
Solitude is my bare calves half-caught
in the country streams or a long highway
that sings with bare company, built with steam,
hearing the scuttering gnaws of the rose lady bug,
or how the earth worm moves quiet,
snug in the quiet earth
and heavy time is yours to shrug.