The Winter House

At last I am in for the sure season: sage,

Lovage, tarragon are dried and hung in easy reach,

Tomatoes reduced to a manageable puree, a waste

Of apple, pear and peach consolidated in labelled

Jars, already gathering dust on the basement shelves.

The light, longer along the ground than it is tall,

Doesn't surround me anymore but seems independent

From the earth, an element of day and not the definition

Of it. The active scenery falls away. Sounds

Skip long distances as if they were bouncing on

A sparer curvature. Only a few sparrows, tenacious

As little milkweed pods, cling to their dry footing

In level November air. Otherwise, ripe things

Have lessened their hold, gone to seed, disappeared,

And in the middle of this remoteness I am alone.

But there is something more to look at, after all,

For just as every effect produces an equal and maybe

Opposite effect, in the seasons there is a kind of law

Of conservation of fullness and vision that takes over

And as things disappear they leave behind the clear

Outline of the immensities they occupied, their cool

Horizons, the long months I need to orient myself

To them. The pale certainties are inescapable:

The outside light contracts, the inside one expands

Out of necessity from this zero center, and all

I have to do is look out the cold window to see

Its idiosyncratic crystals grow, crinkling,

In every direction over the frozen ground.