A Coming to Terms
It is said there are lessons
to be learned from fallen leaves;
from trees – denuded, yet even still,
bare-limbed, they reach out to kiss the skies.
They do not grieve for their loss
nor seek revenge on the wind that stole them away;
gave each one up with no more than a sigh
from frozen branches...
do not cry out how much they miss
the susurrus of summer, and the way a dew-damp
dawn lingered until noon; how light
mothered a patch of cuckoo-spit.
Lessons to be learned from barren fields...
where a rusty plough-share stands – a cenotaph
to harvests past, the air – hushed under charcoal skies
as a quiet epiphany leadens.
And our garden, which would try to convince,
me and itself, that summer will come again – plants
and flowers rise from winter’s grave
and that two birches –
between which a hammock
swings – lifeless in an unforgiving wind,
will one day cease to resent the cold, hard truth,
they will, never again, get to hold you.