Untitled (“Shrewd brown woman,…”)

Shrewd brown woman, what are you gathering? And I fear to approach you, a fear understood By the small breeze that scuttles in the leaves before you And the bent asters hobbling away through the wood…

“…I search, for the purse of the long-dreaming poppy And the tumid sweet apple that startles the bough With its presence. For the thick streaming dyes I will twist from the substance of leaves gathered now.

For the spring’s thin smile, that was merry and wise Has bent to a frown in afe And a resolute hand turns leaf on leaf In the fall of a giant page.”