No more violets,
And the year
Broken into smoky panels.
What woods remember now
Her calls, her enthusiasms.
That ritual of sap and leaves
The sun drew out,
Ends in this latter muffled
Bronze and brass. The wind
Takes rein.
If, dusty, I bear
An image beyond this
Already fallen harvest,
I can only query, “Fool--
Have you remembered too long;
Or was there too little said
For ease or resolution--
Summer scarcely begun
And violets,
A few picked, the rest dead?”