Friday, January 31, 2014

Of Harvest Or Pestilence

All Hallows

Even now the landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

Photographer unknown
Poem by Louise Gluck


Willow Cove said...

"And the soul creeps out of the tree"

Jay's Shadow said...

The perfect description of All Hallows Eve.

bean said...

Yea...Willow Cove...loving that last line. :)