Forewarned

Now when the breath of frost has chilled
The waiting aspens, when the sky
Has floated the birds to another country
And summer’s brook goes dry,

I can review and list my losses
Without complaint, shoulder my grief
While the cold-fingered wind strips
My heart of its last leaf,

And watch time’s plow turn under days
Like stubble, I must lace my boots
And fill the cellar bins— they winter,
Trees, in their roots.