and the soul creeps out of the tree

[lemorttoussaint]

"All Hallows" Louise Glück

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken.  The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke.,
the fields have been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises.

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds,
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one.

And the soul creeps out of the tree.