All Hallows
by Louise Gluck
Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence
and the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one
And the soul creeps out of the tree.
Louise Gluck (American, born 1943), author of twelve books of poetry, has won many awards for her work including, in 1993, the Pulitzer for her collection The Wild Iris. She served as US Poet Laureate from 2003-2004. "All Hallows" is from her collection The House on Marshland.
by Louise Gluck
Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence
and the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one
And the soul creeps out of the tree.
Louise Gluck (American, born 1943), author of twelve books of poetry, has won many awards for her work including, in 1993, the Pulitzer for her collection The Wild Iris. She served as US Poet Laureate from 2003-2004. "All Hallows" is from her collection The House on Marshland.
