(“Shrewd brown woman,…”)
Shrewd brown woman, what are you gathering?
And I fear to approach you, a fear understood
By the small breeze that scuttles in the leaves before you
And the bent asters hobbling away through the wood…
“…I search, for the purse of the long-dreaming poppy
And the tumid sweet apple that startles the bough
With its presence. For the thick streaming dyes
I will twist from the substance of leaves gathered now.
For the spring’s thin smile, that was merry and wise
Has bent to a frown in afe
And a resolute hand turns leaf on leaf
In the fall of a giant page.”