Making

I like the made thing,
its intricacies which make me
over in its image, making it.
I like the found thing also,
the impossible moment when the wind blows
until the big green field goes crazy,
so there is nothing to do but watch
and enjoy our own uselessness
and — somehow — use. It’s rather like
a lover riding you astonishingly well.
Up and down like a carousel horse.
There’s nothing to do but be wonderful
down there, under the rippling joy,
to be the world, the ground,
that world-ground every sliding lover wants.
And the great satisfaction in knowing
you are a good ride, a satisfaction indeed.
Up they go again, and now your smile,
down they come, and know yourself
the perfect machine at delicious last.
And you are oiled with the satisfaction
of it.  And this and nothing more.