Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken.
The oxen sleep in their blue yoke,
The fields have 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, little one.
And the soul creeps out of the tree.
- Louise Gluck -