The poem circles around a mysterious "visitor" that never gets a name. The body seems to sense it first: the nerves know it is coming, and bring a heavy tiredness, a call, a sudden burst of song. The soul feels something stirring inside, but thought can only try to describe it and fail. Even the mind seems embarrassed by its own clichés, though a plain phrase might still startle us if we really heard it.
The speaker then pictures well-kept, fenced, sprayed yards, a image of neat, safe lives where easy certainties go unquestioned. These yards wait, perhaps without knowing it, for the visitor to trample and break through the stifling air. The ending is a release: trees crash and "fly lyrical." The visitor may be inspiration or some wild spiritual force. The mood moves from uneasy tension and frustration to a violent, exhilarating freedom, as if creativity must wreck comfort before it can sing.