I think that there is a spirit of place, a presence asking

to be expressed; and sometimes when we are lucky as

writers, and quiet in a way few of us want to be anymore, 

a voice enters our own . . .

        - John Haines

In the quiet now of a long remembering,

What it  has become I don’t care to know,

But for three days then the rain and wind

Had worn away at the limbs and leaves,

And plums and apples, not nearly ready,

Lay still and stillborn where they had fallen

To the soft and sodden ground, half-buried

In a frenzy of ants and beetles and wasps,

The growing shadows of their brief season

Bruises that deepened until they opened,

And beneath a dusk sky of nothing but stars

A pale barely-there and dewy luminescence,

As though at last the lonely heart of the moon

Had broken and fallen, in love too with the earth.