This poem is from the anthology 'The Heart's Necessities'
The wind in the dry standing corn is the sound of many waters.
(This is the season for remembering,
for gathering in memories like flowers before frost.)
Over the mountains the dark clouds of birds wheel and vanish
and the air stills slowly with the beat of wings
in the light no longer.
(This is the season for what is over and done with, finished.
Hold no promise in your hands. Look to the earth no longer,
nor to the sky, for the snows gather.)
The wind through the standing corn is the murmur of many waters;
look for the frost on the hillside and the milkwood pods
smoking along the roads.
(This is the season for remembering;
blow on your heath's embers, and ask for a little while
no new springing.)
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