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The Book, For Growing Old

Stars moving from their summertime
To winter pasture; and the shepherd, arched
Over earthly happiness; and so much peace,
Like the cry of an insect, halt, irregular,
Shaped by an impoverished god. The silence
Rises from your book up to your heart.
A noiseless wind moves in the noisy world.
Time smells in the distance, ceasing to be.
And in the grove the ripe fruit simply are.

You will grow old
And, fading into the color of the trees,
Making a slower shadow on the wall,
Becoming, as a soul at least, the threatened earth,
You will take up the book again, at the still open page,
And say, These were indeed the last dark words.

-Yves Bonnefoy

I know, I'm late this week.