Bend your boughs to the earth, fragrant with glowing fruit! Ripened seeds shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go when there’s no wind at all, and swing in long wavering arcs toward the ground, which they touch without a sound. There they lie looking up, until the winds rake them together and heap them in fence corners.
When the gales come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail out like sparks at night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner now, so we can see each leaf more plainly as we lie dreaming on the still-warm moss beside the singing spring.
The days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year’s work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking over her long labour, and her serene eye says, “It is good.”
