The Orchard

Brightness from the North

Bright shapes in the dark garden, the gardenless stretch

Of old yard, sweetened now by the half-light

As if by burning flowers. Overture. First gesture.

But not even that, the pause before the gesture,

The window frame composing the space, so it

Seems as if time has stopped, as if this half-dark,

This winter grass, plated with frost, these unseen

Silent birds might stay forever. It seems as if

This might be what forever is, the presence of time

Overriding the body of time, the fullness of time

Not a moment but a being, watchful and unguarded,

Unguarded and gravely watched this garden—

The black fir with its long aristocratic broken branches,

The cluster of three tiny tipped arborvitae

Damp as sea sponges, the ghostly sycamore shedding

Its skin, and the sweet row of yews along the walk

Into which people throw their glittering trash....

And who, when the light rises, will come up the walk?

We can say no one will come—the day will be empty

Because you are no longer in it. We can say

The things of the day do not fill it. We can say

The eye is not filled by seeing. Nor silenced

By blinding. We can say, we can say your body

Appeared on the table, and swiftly disappeared—

Do not let the sun go down on the dead figure,

Do not fix the dead figure in mind, the false face,

Remember as you should remember, by heart,

In the garden’s dark chamber—and the ground

Took the body, and the ground was pleased.

And oh, now, the busy light comes too quickly,

The gray grass unrolling, birds mewling in the trees,

Dawn raising the walls of day, the rooms we live in,

Things painted on plaster to keep the dying company,

A toppled jar, a narrow bird, an ornamental tree

With no name, and crouched beneath the stone table,

The lion with four heads, who looks this morning

As he rises from the shadows, like the creature

Who carries on his back the flat and shining earth.