The Wild Geese
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer’s end. In time’s maze
over fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed’s marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.
by Wendell Berry
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2 Comments
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What a beautiful poem, Polly. Thank you for sharing it and your inspiration and beauty with all of us.
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[…] often seen Wendall Berry quoted (like on this blog here as well as here) and for my book of essays for this years Reading Challenge I chose to read his […]
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