The Change

The same plowed field and
gold-leaved woods, calling crows,
mice in stiff grass mark
the same season,
a hawk wheels on the wind
as hawks wheel each fall.

The same hunter slides his gun
under his arm and stalks
the pheasant, unmated now, in
meadows where grass lies curled
in brown balls just the same.

A pale sun views the same harsh
landscape, I close the gates
and leave the fields to hawk
and hunter in the same way.

November wraps its days
in a cloak of dry leaves,
nothing seems changed,
frosted windfalls lie underfoot
in the same decay,
but a spring sun stirred
love’s roots to grow and
I am not the same.