Stubble and Stover
Mist rose over the river at dawn
And hovered to kiss the still water
From the west or south blowing
The mystified wind came and caught her
And spun along winnowing
The mist from the water and lawn
On another day after the sun had flown high
The wind threshed a leaf from its place
To drift to those already stacked in frail spires
When did they fall? Oh, when did they grace
Bare ground with their crackling fire
And bid their adieu to the sky?
In the afternoon golden the wind skips along
Between carpet and drapery of leaves
By the edges of fields where the harvest still grows
While from above come the recitatives
Of the myriad wheeling and gathering crows
In the fullness of black-feathered throng
Even as the wind whispers and tumbles on past
The harvest comes swift on the generous plain
The lost wind will come searching between bereaved stalks
Where once was a crop, only stover remains;
Where life held her bounty, another now walks,
And winter is coming on fast.