Tuesday, October 13, 2009

October 10 - Wendell Berry

Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds
loud—a landmark—now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.

1 comment:

  1. please update with new poems. this blog is a gem. a lot of these poems i've never seen and the poets i've never heard of. i love it. thanks and please update soon!