My Words Lie Drifting

My words lie drifting on the wind -
A kinship stretched by swell and hill -
More frail, my dreams, than any migrant breeze,
And thinning still.

In patchwork rows, bright blooms ascend,
Until each field has had its fill;
I pluck but one, its petals moonlight pale
And thinning still.

How small, my heart, and full of doubt -
My heart, by silence, there bestilled;
As trifling a thing as could harbor dreams,
And thinning still.