After Sorrow

I used to think    something good
must be coming    when a day came
like this one    The light strong again
after rain    after the slow gathering-in
of the days    the nights   getting darker and colder
I am older now       A day comes
The poplars    not torches    but lit
with their own leaves dying       A mist
breathes out from the shining fields
And this is good       The light    the mist
the color of the leaves       A broken quorum
of brown wrens    flutter    and settle
their paths of flight binding up the branches
of a shattered apple tree   Abandoned
fruit gleams    wet and round and red
against the cracked black trunk
Something good    The present voices
of the birds    The sun rising in November