we can already call autumn
raising a sheaf above our heads
autumn, from bells and from the field
it will come home wreathed
with flower wreaths, will sit at the table
where we, grown sweet with exhaustion,
will look at our heavy hands
and the branchy evening will encircle us
(in its shade I once listened
to how it calls us, but not by name)
the table will be covered with flowers
and herbs and it will be indivisible,
and our hours and days will be one
and we will watch, grown sweet,
how the bread knife unifies the bread