The large-leaved day grows rapidly,

And opens in this familiar spot

Its unfamiliar, difficult fern,

Pushing and pushing red after red.

There are doubles of this fern in clouds,

Less firm than the paternal flame,

Yet drenched with its identity,

Reflections and off-shoots, mimic-motes

And mist-mites, dangling seconds, grown

Beyond relation to the parent trunk:

The dazzling, bulging, brightest core,

The furiously burning father-fire …

Infant, it is enough in life

To speak of what you see. But wait

Until sight wakens the sleepy eye

And pierces the physical fix of things.