Thursday, October 1, 2009


A poem of Wendell Berry to mark the beginning of October

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.

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