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66 Martinson / Fulton The swamp mosses drink of the stream . . . The swamp mosses drink of the stream until it is more and more low-voiced. It sinks its watery clucking to a summer whisper, drowned out by midges. It soon changes to sign-language, which every tussock knows. Soon its hidden meaning blossoms up in moist buckbean. (Tuvor/Tussocks, 1973) Spruce stands bole by bole . . . Spruce stands bole by bole with spruce They wrap themselves together hold a needly brim over the twin-flower bells. The flight of the grass-moth is low and fluttering with unheard wingbeats. Here the northern forest whispers its least song. (Tuvor/Tussocks, 1973)
page 73
Martinson / Fulton 67 The wind searched in the forest grass . . . The wind searched in the forest grass and found a word, it sounded like unsayable life but it was a name the biggest stone gave to the smallest twilight butterfly. Too hard to remember says the wave. Too fine to be said flickers the wind. (Posthumously published)

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66

Martinson / Fulton

The swamp mosses drink of the stream . . .

The swamp mosses drink of the stream until it is more and more low-voiced. It sinks its watery clucking to a summer whisper, drowned out by midges. It soon changes to sign-language, which every tussock knows. Soon its hidden meaning blossoms up in moist buckbean.

(Tuvor/Tussocks, 1973)

Spruce stands bole by bole . . .

Spruce stands bole by bole with spruce They wrap themselves together hold a needly brim over the twin-flower bells. The flight of the grass-moth is low and fluttering with unheard wingbeats. Here the northern forest whispers its least song.

(Tuvor/Tussocks, 1973)

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