I take the bird on the woodpile,
separate it from its function, feather
by feather. I blow up its scale.
I make a whole life out of it:
everywhere I am, its sense of loitering
lights on my shoulder.
– Mary Ruefle
Things are not
unmoving (or else what
is ing there for?)
The things once-living
fall on the never-living
all the more movingly for the eye
that passes over them.
The wind wells up
to spill a trail
of onces off the nevers,
take opaque from eye
to mind, or near it —
every rocking takes some leaving
to a stonish spirit.
– Heather McHugh, ” Leaf Litter on Rock Face”
Even now this landscape is assembling.The hills darken. The oxensleep in their blue yoke,the fields having beenpicked clean, the sheavesbound evenly and piled at the roadsideamong cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrennessof harvest or pestilence.And the wife leaning out the windowwith her hand extended, as in payment,and the seedsdistinct, gold, callingCome here
Come here, little one
And the soul creeps out of the tree.
– Louise Gluck, “All Hallows”
trees laden with fruit,
to wait for Spring