by Richard Wilbur
A word sticks in the wind’s throat;
A wind-launch drifts in the swells of the rye;
Sometimes, in broad silence,
The hanging apples distil their darkness.
You, in a green dress, calling, and with brown hair,
Who comes by the field-path now, whose name I say
Softly, forgive me love if also I call you
Wind’s word, apple-heart, haven of grasses.
You can find this poem in Richard Wilbur: Collected Poems 1943-2004.