December 2009
When I go through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half-closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling...
What matters most is how well you walk through the...