The last poem of the year isn't a poem. A prayer,
it speaks its wish to the crisping air: There's
a knowing song, long-known, but hidden
in the sway of dry, yellow stalks. It was given
to sing-in the seasons. Hear it lessen and grow
louder with the starling-clouds, their bulging black snow
against putty-gray skies. They'll stretch thin again,
and the song. Can the song sing us an ever when
any what, not what we think, but who, mothering
itself from one to many, joins with us, and sings?
No comments:
Post a Comment