Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/51

 Has come time’s length through his old windy house For this— For what, then?

Neither.

I am a woman in a waterproof Walking beside the river in an autumn rain. Above the trolley bridge the market gardens Are charnel fields where the unburied corn Rots and the rattling pumpkin vines lift brittle fingers Warning—of what?—and livid, broken skulls Of cabbages gape putrid in a pond—

My face under the cold rain is cold As winter leaves that cover up the year.