Even now this landscape is assembling. <br />The hills darken. The oxen <br />Sleep in their blue yoke, <br />The fields having been <br />Picked clean, the sheaves <br />Bound evenly and piled at the roadside <br />Among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises: <br /> <br />This is the barrenness <br />Of harvest or pestilence <br />And the wife leaning out the window <br />With her hand extended, as in payment, <br />And the seeds <br />Distinct, gold, calling <br />Come here <br />Come here, little one <br /> <br />And the soul creeps out of the tree.<br /><br />Louise Glück<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-hallows-2/
