By Adrienne Rich （女）艾德里安娜。里奇

The river-fog will do for privacy

on the low road a breath

here， there， a cloudiness floating on the black top

sunflower heads turned black and bowed

the seas of corn a stubble

the old routes flowing north， if not to freedom

no human figure now in sight

（with whom do you believe your lot is cast？）

only the functional figure of the scarecrow

the cut corn， ground to shreds， heaped in a shape

like an Indian burial mound

a haunted-looking， ordinary thing

The work of winter starts fermenting in my head

how with the hands of a lover or a midwife

to hold back till the time is right

force nothing， be unforced

accept no giant miracles of growth

by counterfeit light

trust roots， allow the days to shrink

give credence to these slender means

wait without sadness and with grave impatience

here in the north where winter has a meaning

where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen

where nothing is promised

learn what an underground journey

has been， might have to be； speak in a winter code

let fog， sleet， translate； wind， carry them.