Kenyon - Let Evening Come
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Let Evening Come
(1990)
JANE KENYON
Let Evening Come
(1990)
for Pauline Kenyon
So strange, life is. Why people do not
go around in a continual state of surprise
is beyond me.
William Maxwell
Three Songs at the End of Summer
I
A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,
and like midwives and undertakers
possess a weird authority.
Crickets leap from the stubble,
parting before me like the Red Sea.
The garden sprawls and spoils.
Across the lake the campers have learned
to water-ski. They have, or they havent.
Sounds of the instructors megaphone
suffuse the hazy air. Relax! Relax!
Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod
brighten the margins of the woods.
Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.
II
The cicadas dry monotony breaks
over me. The days are bright
and free, bright and free.
Then why did I cry today
for an hour, with my whole
body, the way babies cry?
III
A white, indifferent morning sky,
and a crow, hectoring from its nest
high in the hemlock, a nest as big
as a laundry basket...
In my childhood
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.
The damp dirt road gave off
this same complex organic scent.
I had the new bookswords, numbers,
and operations with numbers I did not
comprehendand crayons, unspoiled
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.
Spruce, inadequate, and alien
I stood at the side of the road.
It was the only life I had.
After the Hurricane
I walk the fibrous woodland path to the pond.
Acorns break from the oaks, drop
through amber autumn air
which does not stir. The dog runs way ahead.
I find him snuffling on the shore
among water weeds that detached in the surge;
a broad, soft band of rufous pine needles;
a bar of sand; and shards of mica
glinting in the bright but tepid sun.
Here, really, we had only hard rain.
The cell I bought for the lamp
and kettles of water I drew remain
unused. All day we were restless, drowsy,
afraid, and finally, let down:
we didnt get to demonstrate our grit.
In the full, still pond the likeness
of golden birch leaves and the light they emit
shines exact. When the dog sees himself
his hackles rise. I stir away his trouble
with a stick.
A crow breaks in upon our satisfaction.
We look up to see it lift heavily
from its nest high in the hemlock, and the bough
equivocate in the peculiar light. It was
the author of Walden, wasnt it,
who made a sacrament of saying no.
After Working Long on One Thing
Through the screen door
I hear a hummingbird, inquiring
for nectar among the stalwart
hollyhocksan erratic flying
ruby, asking for sweets among
the sticky-throated flowers.
The sky wont darken in the west
until ten. Where shall I turn
this light and tired mind?
Waking in January before Dawn
Something that sounded like the town
plow just went by: there must be snow.
What was it I fell asleep thinking
while the shutters strained on their hooks
in the wind, and the window frames
creaked as they do when its terribly cold,
and getting colder fast? I pulled
the covers over my head.
Now through lace curtains I can see
the huge Wolf Moon going down,
and soon the sky will lighten, turning
first gray, then pink, then blue....
How frightened I was as a child, waking
at Grandmas, though I saw
that the animal about to pounce
a dreadful, vaguely organized beast
was really the sewing machine.
Now the dresser reclaims visibility,
and yesterdays clothes cohere
humpbacked and headless on the chair.
Catching Frogs
I crouched beside the deepest pool,
and the smell of damp and moss
rose rich between my knees. Water-striders
creased the silver-black silky surface.
Rapt, I hardly breathed. Gnats
roiled in a shaft of sun.
Back again after supper Id see
a nose poke up by the big flat stone
at the lip of the fall; then the humped
eyes and the slippery emerald head,
freckled brown. The buff membrane
pulsed under the jaw while
subtleties of timing played in my mind.
With a patience that came like grace
I waited. Mosquitoes moaned all
around. Better to wait. Better to reach
from behind.... It grew dark.
I came into the warm, bright room
where Father held aloft the evening
paper, and there was talk, and maybe
laughter, though I dont remember laughter.
In the Grove: The Poet at Ten
She lay on her back in the timothy
and gazed past the doddering
auburn heads of sumac.
A cloudhuge, calm,
and dignifiedcovered the sun
but did not, could not, put it out.
The light surged back again.
Nothing could rouse her then
from that joy so violent
it was hard to distinguish from pain.
The Pear
There is a moment in middle age
when you grow bored, angered
by your middling mind,
afraid.
That day the sun
burns hot and bright,
making you more desolate.
It happens subtly, as when a pear
spoils from the inside out,
and you may not be aware
until things have gone too far.
Christmas Away from Home
Her sickness brought me to Connecticut.
Mornings I walk the dog: that part of life
is intact. Whos painted, whos insulated
or put siding on, whos burned the lawn
with limethats the news on Ardmore Street.
The leaves of the neighbors respectable
rhododendrons curl under in the cold.
He has backed the car
through the white nimbus of its exhaust
and disappeared for the day.
In the hiatus between mayors
the city has left leaves in the gutters,
and passing cars lift them in maelstroms.
We pass the house two doors down, the one
with the wildest lights in the neighborhood,
an establishment without irony.
All summer their putto empties a water jar,
their St. Francis feeds the birds.
Now its angels, festoons, waist-high
candles, and swans pulling sleighs.
Two hundred miles north Id let the dog
run among birches and the black shade of pines.
I miss the hills, the woods and stony
streams, where the swish of jacket sleeves
against my sides seems loud, and a crow
caws sleepily at dawn.
By now the streams must run under a skin
of ice, white air-bubbles passing erratically,
like blood cells through a vein. Soon the mail,
forwarded, will begin to reach me here.
Taking Down the Tree
Give me some light! cries Hamlets
uncle midway through the murder
of Gonzago. Light! Light! cry scattering
courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
its dark at four, and even the moon
shines with only half a heart.
The ornaments go down into the box:
the silver spaniel, My Darling
on its collar, from Mothers childhood
in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
my brother and I fought over,
pulling limb from limb. Mother
drew it together again with thread
while I watched, feeling depraved
at the age of ten.
With something more than caution
I handle them, and the lights, with their
tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along
from house to house, their pasteboard
toy suitcase increasingly flimsy.
Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.
By suppertime all that remains is the scent
of balsam fir. If its darkness
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