The trees remain as they really are:
black, cold and bare,
the ground remains as it really is:
black, cold and bare.
The panicking swishers-away
leave nothing behind
but a few wisps of milfoil.
Any moment now
is the fair sentence
to be thrown all over the place;
no time to appeal.
.
A mother drives her child from the yard
into the house to learn the lessons,
drives the cow into the cow-house.
People and animals are driven
from where they are
to where they have to be.
* * *
If there was love for no reason,
not for the beauty of movements
nor the mystery of glance
nor other charms that can’t be resisted;
not for a chaste or depraved life,
not for the heart faithful till death you parts,
not for being a really great parent,
not for the taste superior or subtle,
not for smartness or the right instincts,
not for useful gifts
nor honesty and riches of mind,
not for heading in the right direction.
Not for slaving for some twisted complex.
Not for the guilty conscience
nor the expectations,
however tiny and hidden from oneself,
to get anything in return,
be it just a grateful look,
not to speak of
the rapture beyond.
Not love as an entry
in tradesman books,
but a love probably not
even aware of itself,
a love for no traceable,
thinkable reason.
Familiar with the ways of the world
and the unavoidable fading,
yet there.
That would do,
that would really do
to found anything
worth something.
* * *
When heat disperses
and ground absorbs the summer,
when evening brightness comes
down on the eyelids,
when verdure quivers
(yet plenty of time till dew),
soft evening gusts would blow
me off from me (not that I notice)
layer by layer.
More doors than ever, faces many more
would open, I would flow in
and recognize them, recognize myself,
soul would dissolve in me by soul,
coat melt by coat.
One more still moment, a hermit
in his hovel non-apparent
would wave me
—the last of coats would clear.
“She was,” a voice would sound in distance.
Then
the deceased and perfect
would step
into infinitude.