An autumn day of honey and breezes,
when the pores of the air swell with the late year--
driving yesterday past an ordinary field of soybeans,
their leaves had aged to the yellow gleam of lemons
in the sunlight -- like the waxy sides of lemons and clean,
sharp glints under the afternoon sunlight--
wide rows ruffling in wind to the horizon
and somehow recalling the purple lavender fields
of Provence where we will walk one day.
Crows shifted nervously from the road
to the field’s edge as the car passed, honing
their small, stubborn gift for elegy on the high fence wires
and glancing toward winter, a far mirror
to be scratched by sleet and emaciated vines.
Now, as long shadows bleed from the roots of trees,
stop and think of Provence again, slowly.