Impromtu

My mind is a puddle in the street reflecting green Sirius;
  In thick dark groves trees huddle lifting their branches like
  beckoning hands.
  We eat the grain, the grain is death, all goes back to the earth's
  dark mass,
  All but a song which moves across the plain like the wind's
  deep-muttering breath.
  Bowed down upon the earth, man sets his plants and watches for the
  seed,
  Though he be part of the tragic pageant of the sky, no heaven will
  aid his mortal need.
  I find flame in the dust, a word once uttered that will stir again,
  And a wine-cup reflecting Sirius in the water held in my hands.