into wordless work falls
one's soul—and I panic!
will I awaken God
in this quiet of years
that still deafens like a wall?
will I learn by His seventh word?
for you, by you
good fruit was raised
in our own garden
quiet and strong
gathered, rooted
in the golden summer air
whose breath told of hours, of days
of far richer poetry

trees die, however
like lovers and myself
speaking often of tears
yet never any face
giving over a once-nourished world
to hushed laughter
our world—spent—
we now groan
and meet the changes
with neither peace nor trust
just seasons
grasses and farewells
the wakes of ghosts exposed
by fertile reason