The Leaving Season

 

It is the leaving season—

 

So why shouldn’t the rains assail us,

borne as they are in gathering clouds

above our stubbled and forgotten fields?

 

Why shouldn’t crook-backed trees stagger

under the weight of tears pumped

through the delicate veins of leaves?

 

Why shouldn’t the river flood

disgorging bleached logs, clots of grass,

and the unrecognizable canker?

 

Why shouldn’t geese assemble and grumble

as they knead the marshland one last time;

or the woodchuck sigh as he slips his head beneath the earth?

 

We are simple tenants here—

and, perhaps, behind in what is owed.

 

Still, we grasp your hands against your going.

We beg you to stay.

Do not leave us in this leaving season.

 

 

Shutta

(11/15/08)