Last night I dreamt us back to our first home,
To the trail outside down the sloping field,
And there, as we walked in the needle-fire
Of a sunset pouring through the cypress groves,
There and then the harvest season began,
Snapping the small spurs off the cornstraw
And broom, threshing the long grass into cataracts
Of foam . . . You had been walking a little way
Before me as we talked, and though we turned
Toward each other then, linking arms in the rising
Air, the air seemed to drive us back on ourselves,
Some emblem of our separateness—why was it, then,
That we kept standing there as the evening sky’s
Violence redoubled, and why, stunned by that
Sudden squall, did we keep talking, though the words
Were torn whole and inaudible from our lips.
The Harvest Season
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