Annie Finch

Sir, I am not a bird of prey: a Lady does not seize the day. I trust that brief Time will unfold our youth, before he makes us old. How could we two write lines of rhyme were we not fond of numbered Time and grateful to the vast and sweet trials his days will make us meet? The Grave's not just the body's curse; no skeleton can pen a verse! So while this numbered World we see, let's sweeten Time with poetry, and Time, in turn, may sweeten Love and give us time our love to prove. You've praised my eyes, forehead, breast: you've all our lives to praise the rest.

If we change as she is changing, if she changes as we change (If she changes, I am changing) Who is changing, as I bend down to what the sky has sent us? (Is she changing, or the same?)

These are the seasons Persephone promised as she turned on her heel— the ones that darken, till green no longer bandages what I feel. Now touches of gold stipple the branches, promising weeks of time to fade through, finding the footprints she left as she turned to climb.

Chestnuts fell in the charred season, Fell finally, finding room In air to open their old cases So they gleam out from the gold leaves, In the dusk now, where they dropped down. I go watch them, waiting for winter, Their husks open and holding on. Those rusted rims are rigid=hard And cling clean to the clear brown, And the fall sun sinks soon, And the day draws to its dark end, .and the feet give up the gray walk, no longer lingering, light gone, and I am here and do not go home. Hollow gifts to cold children: The chestnuts they hid in small caches Have gone hollow, their gleam gone, Their grain gone, and the children are home.