Sweet pitch of white pine
sticks to my fingers from a cone
I picked up this morning. Rubbing
won't rid me of it. That's what I wanted
I wanted that, and I want
this very romantic light falling on wings
of a blue jay in flight across a poplar,
sallow, trembling and fading.
I bless the leaves falling,
eddying, the red leaves, to earth,
to death and frosty grass.
I bless the lichen on oak bark....
Listen: You can't have this.
Not this, or the dark stand of cedars,
or Norway maples, or white toadstools poking
out of moss under dead pine needles.
There are some things you cannot have-
not bayberry or deep sumac or birch,
none of these. Other things too-things
you want now, things you will never have.
Believe that. Walk into it as if it were lasting darkness.
There's no violation in such dark, and,
well, you can remember this vagrant and holy season
very clearly-there's that.