Thursday, October 11, 2007


Here's a poem by Wendell Berry titled "October 10." I just found it today, so it's a day late. Better late than never.

Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
bleach whiter.

Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.

The calling of a crow sounds
loud--a landmark--now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.

From The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry

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