I had meant to post this earlier.
The title of this poem is
and it describes so beautifully
the little jungle out the back,
we call the garden.
Now constantly there is the sound,
quieter than rain,
of the leaves falling.
Under their loosening bright
gold, the sycamore limbs
Now the only flowers
are beeweed and aster, spray
of their white and lavender
over the brown leaves.
The calling of a crow sounds
loud - a landmark - now
that the life of summer falls
silent, and the nights grow.
I have just come in from walking with Bruce
in the quickening dusk of autumn.
Reading Wendell Berry I am reminded
of our early days farming,
and the part Louis Bromfield played
in our philosophy of farming,
and his influence on us
in establishing a flock of sheep
in the orchard.
An early Wendell Berry.
I search the shelves for his 'Malibar Farms"
but it seems to have disappeared
(probably on the shelves of one of the children)
and I have to be content with his novel
It takes me back.
and the memories are so good....