The Conversation

His old fist like a knotted branch
He punched into his cap
Meaning. "This is a morning!--
The mist like white scoured wool
Is teased and spread about the hills,
The valleys' bales are full."

I nodded in agreement
And likewise punched my hat
Seeming to say, "At noonday
The wind will comb and spin
That fleece of mist to thread of cloud
And night will wind it in."

His hand to the horizon
He waved in careless joy
Observing by this gesture,
As I was quick to know,
That over the hills lay China
And both of us should go.

As silent as two fence posts
Years, years ago we stood
Having such talk as only
Children and fools may try,
That excellent old madman
Wordless and wise, and I.