Late Spring

I tried to sow the oats and grass this year
as one who had learned from experience—
I see less springs ahead than I have lost
and what I’ve done the only recompense.

But it was a backward season, dry and cold
day after day, the air gritty with dust,
the ground too hard to cover all the seed,
yet I kept on because I felt I must.

I was late enough as it was, and when at last
I finished the field and looked the seeding over,
the sight of the work appalled me and I saw
dry weeds and clods instead of oats and clover.

My body numbed with fatigue, my stupid brain
wished only for some relief, like tears or rain.