part IV: Tower Grove

End it. Make no play about
It, anymore, but cut it
And bag it and dump it
To compost. This all is
What has wrought you;
Iron and days and time
The forge of all this you own:
120 by 80, your lot, your home.
Winter’s coming, the birth of
The year, the beginning of time -
For nothing has nothing created;
That is the nature of things.

All this reading, all these years
(Oh not that many but then
One score and ten is something,
No?) Yes – and
Now it is time to rake up
The remnants of the season
And stuff them tight and
Bring them to soil. End it:
Today, before they arrive.

She looks on through the window
Briefly, her arms in her sweater
And her mind on the peace,
On the table leaves and candles
And you hold fast the handle
Of the rake and pull it to work
For once.

The East and West are fences
You didn’t build, the North is
Cold and South is the Earth and
Home you’ve filled: here are
The cats you feed, here is
The life you lead, here is
The blood she bleeds, here is
The book you read. The house
You own. It is done.
You are here, and this
Is yours. It is done.