Sometimes we don't say anything. Sometimes we sit on the deck and stare at the masses of goldenrod where the garden used to be and watch the color change from day to day, the high yellow turning to mustard and at last to tarnish. Starlings flitter in the branches of the dead hornbeam by the fence. And are these therefore the procedures of defeat? Why am I saying all this to you anyway since you already know it? But of course we always tell each other what we already know. What else? It's the way love is in a late stage of the world. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GROSS CLINIC by CAROL FROST A TIME TO TALK by ROBERT FROST MADRIGAL: 109 by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI LOVE SONG by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO SWEET MEAT, SOUR SAUCE; AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS OR ANACREON by PHILIP AYRES THE TOYS' COMPLAINT by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |