Jane Kenyon

 

Thinking of Madame Bovary

The first hot April day the granite step

was warm. Flies droned in the grass.

When a car went past they rose

in unison, then dropped back down. . . .

I saw that a yellow crocus bud had pierced

a dead oak leaf, then opened wide. How strong

its appetite for the luxury of the sun!

Everyone longs for love’s tense joy and red delights.

And then I spied an ant

dragging a ragged, disembodied wing

up the warm brick walk. It must have been

the Methodist in me that leaned forward,

preceded by my shadow, to put a twig just where

the ant was struggling with its own desire.

Jane Kenyon

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon

Otherwise

I got out of bed 

on two strong legs. 
It might have been 
otherwise. I ate 
cereal, sweet 
milk, ripe, flawless 
peach. It might 
have been otherwise. 
I took the dog uphill 
to the birch wood. 
All morning I did 
the work I love. 

At noon I lay down 
with my mate. It might 
have been otherwise. 
We ate dinner together 
at a table with silver 
candlesticks. It might 
have been otherwise. 
I slept in a bed 
in a room with paintings 
on the walls, and 
planned another day 
just like this day. 
But one day, I know, 
it will be otherwise.