by Sophie Cabot Black
Though the leaves have turned their backs on us
And the lilac gives over to dusk, nothing
Is ever certain, not even the house, stubborn
In twilight as it outlasts the grove
It was wrestled from, and those left behind,
The oak and ancient elm, lean against each other,
Begin to die. Out of dirt, out of
Some small mistake, comes the seedling.
It too has learned to watch, as we walk in and out
Of what wilderness was, and will again become,
As we enter our home, the way we enter love
Returning from elsewhere to call out
Each other’s names, pulling the door closed behind us.