We forget, we remember.

               Oregon, summer, driving

                              west from the mountains,

                                             long white grasses blazing

                                                            along the valley road:

nothing comes from nothing.

               Green fields edged in brown,

                              glazing orange light, and

                                             beneath it all a black chill

                                                             where dreaming disappears—

a gleaming moon rises

               in your heart, in my heart,

                              and then late at night

                                             there it is, completing

                                                            summer in the sky:

radiance, darkness,

               under the hardscrabble

                              familiar. Nothing

                                             comes from nothing,

                                                            the grain of beauty deepens.

                                                     —Glenn Hughes