duhpursuit

These are always the most beautiful days…
while everything holds its last,
before the stems stiffen and drop their sails,
before the snow drifts build and bury all alike.

The small fruits of shrubs and trees have yet to harden and fall,
a bouquet unwrapped and scattered before the vase.

Already the garden leans,
bearing down
under the weight of the few
we manage to harvest before the frost,
before the flies, the worms, devoted to their tides,
drop dead and sodden,
dampening the darkened loam,
building, beneath the belly of sky,
another grain of sand.

Before the sun, still, breaks their trembling and burns
above a rigid sheet of ice, the silent surface,
the whipping crack of dawn.

But now the earth still splits, still seams.
Now the blooms break open.
Easily as ships cut through rain.

These are always the most beautiful days.
Still promises to keep. Still miles to go before we sleep.