November

There is a feeling
of emptiness descending.

At a time when bees have fled from the vine,
when chestnuts have burst smooth from their skins,
when rain has soaked field and rock into gray,
the longing comes
not to be the farmer but to be the farmer's wife;
not to be the wood cut freshly,
but instead the table beneath the hand,
perfected.


Copyright 1995 by Terra Elan McVoy -- from the table beneath the hand