Friday, July 2, 2021

Vespers by Louise Glück


In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment, principally
regarding the tomato plants.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow
tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold
the heavy rains, the cold nights that come
so often here, while other regions get
twelve weeks of summer. All this
belongs to you: on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spots so quickly
multiplying in the rows. I doubt
you have a heart, in our understanding of
 that term. You who do not discriminate
between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,
immune to foreshadowing, you may not know
how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,
the red leaves of the maple falling
even in August, the early darkness: I am responsible
for these vines. 

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