I am from dark lightsFrom closed books and old forgotten poemsI am from the wood beams and metal walls.Splintered floorboardsI am from the treesThe dead oak treesWho's long gone limbs I rememberAs if that where my ownFrom quiet dinners and my own space.From mother and father.I'm from silent goodnight's and unsaid words.I'm from the quiet and the stillAnd scars.I'm from cleaning the house on quiet days.I'm from Smyrna and Tennessee.Coffee and tea .
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
The Winters are so short --I'm hardly justifiedIn sending all the Birds away --And moving into Pod --Myself -- for scarcely settled --The Phoebes have begun --And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --And open House -- again --It's mostly, interruptions --My Summer -- is despoiled --Because there was a Winter -- once --And al the Cattle -- starved --And so there was a Deluge --And swept the World away --But Ararat's a Legend -- now --And no one credits Noah --