Poetry: IV

From A Tim­bered Choir (Coun­ter­point).
–Wen­dell Berry

The sum­mer ends, and it is time
To face anoth­er way. Our theme
Reversed, we har­vest the last row
To store against the cold, undo
The gar­den that will be undone.
We grieve under the weak­ened sun
To see all earth­’s green foun­tains dried,
And fall­en all the works of light.
You do not speak, and I regret
This down­fall of the good we sought
As though the fault were mine. I bring
The plow to turn the shattering
Leaves and bent stems into the dark,
From which they may return. At work,
I see you leav­ing our bright land,
The last cut flow­ers in your hand.