The sun, a windfall red and cold,
sets like an afterthought
of last night’s precious rain.
What creatures have not been here –
and I have been with them –
heavy of heart and lighter of years.
That is how the savors of a circle
hemmed in time may burn
a long time, incessant like incense,
rising as falsely as fairies
from blades of autumn grass
on which the future faintly dews.
If the flurry of things is pressed like
lives into leaves of a yellow book,
if silence has a backward sweep
over the loudness of palm lines,
the birds may also seem to sound
our logoi like their songs.
12:17 pm 12 October 2010