Leavetaking

Nearing the start of that mysterious last season

Which brings us to the close of the other four,

I’m somewhat afraid and don’t know how to prepare,

So I will praise you.

I will praise you for the glaze on buttercups

And the pearly scent of wild fresh water

And the great cross-bow shapes of swans flying over

With that strong silken threshing sound of wings

Which you gave them when you made them without voices.

And I will praise you for crickets.

On starry autumn nights

When the earth is cooling

Their rusty diminutive music

Repeated over and over

Is the very marrow of peace.

And I praise you for crows’ calling from tree-tops,

Speech of my first village,

And for the sparrow’s flash of song

Flinging me in an instant

The joy of a child who woke

Each morning to the freedom

Of her mother’s unclouded love

And lived in it like a country.

And I praise you that from vacant lots

From only broken glass and candy-wrappers

You raise up the blue chicory flowers.

I thank you for that secret praise

Which burns in every creature,

And I ask you to bring us to life

Out of every sort of death

And teach us mercy.