What I want to know is, when will it be enough?
When will the fields be safe?
The sun caught in the grasses,
and the deer, silent in the dry fall wind,
following shadows to the yellow oak tree,
everything still mysterious at mid-afternoon,
And the throat-soaked crow songs,
like every moment is heavy with the abruptness of dawn,
all the flowers dead except maybe the last blink of goldenrod,
or a cattail tuft along a distant streambank,
And nothing is quite over, as it’s always unwinding,
with the ground ferns dead,
and the tree ferns just returning to life?
When will I pass these places and know,
that they will not someday be driveways, and fences, and
when will I know that all of eternity will not be broken up into
the tightly packed confines of houses?
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