1

    When the moon appears

    and a few wind-stricken barns stand out

    in the low-domed hills

    and shine with a light

    that is veiled and dust-filled

    and that floats upon the fields，

    my mother， with her hair in a bun，

    her face in shadow， and the smoke

    from her cigarette coiling close

    to the faint yellow sheen of her dress，

    stands near the house

    and watches the seepage of late light

    down through the sedges，

    the last gray islands of cloud

    taken from view， and the wind

    ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat

    on the black bay.

    2

    Soon the house， with its shades drawn closed， will send

    small carpets of lampglow

    into the haze and the bay

    will begin its loud heaving

    and the pines， frayed finials

    climbing the hill， will seem to graze

    the dim cinders of heaven.

    And my mother will stare into the starlanes，

    the endless tunnels of nothing，

    and as she gazes，

    under the hour's spell，

    she will think how we yield each night

    to the soundless storms of decay

    that tear at the folding flesh，

    and she will not know

    why she is here

    or what she is prisoner of

    if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.

    3

    My mother will go indoors

    and the fields， the bare stones

    will drift in peace， small creatures ——

    the mouse and the swift —— will sleep

    at opposite ends of the house.

    Only the cricket will be up，

    repeating its one shrill note

    to the rotten boards of the porch，

    to the rusted screens， to the air， to the rimless dark，

    to the sea that keeps to itself.

    Why should my mother awake？

    The earth is not yet a garden

    about to be turned. The stars

    are not yet bells that ring

    at night for the lost.

    It is much too late.