Once in my youth I saw her,
feared her, fled her.
Once heard her rustling wings,
her voice behind me, summoning.
There was something she would say,
something then I would not hear,
something youth won’t contemplate
in the springing of its year.
In the stormy fields of summer,
deceived, I thought that she was gone,
all that dizzy hot green summer
on the shore of Acheron.
But all green hayfields fade to yellow.
Autumn rains erode the clay.
All the cornfields rustle yellow.
Nothing green can stay.
And as I walk the fields of stubble,
my own gray shadow blocks the sun.
I see my breath-cloud in the air
and black crows gather everywhere.