That was Oswald’s November
four long years ago.
I remember meeting secretly once a week or oftener,
know it wrong, but having those reasons.
So I commute to your studio,
my smooth smith, my softener.
We take love in all its seasons.
This is the last picture page
of the calendar.
Now I feel my age,
watching the feverish birds outside
pocketing grain in their beaks.
The wind is bizarre.
The wind goes boo, boo, boo at my side
and the kitchen faucet leaks.
This is the last leaf
in the year’s book.
Now I come to grief
as the earth’s breast goes hard and mean
and hay is packed for the manger.
Down by the brook
frogs freeze like chessmen and can’t be seen
and you are gone, my stranger.