What affection I have for the earth,
for the meadow already gone to golden,

for the burnt-orange reeds of the cattails,
and the maple leaves etched in yellow

against a pale blue sky, and the black trunk,
and the black branches, and the small black twigs.

In the morning, I remember how much
I love the colors of the sky before

the sun rises, not any one day
the same, changed by the haze in the valley,

the ridges of clouds riding high and white.
In the evening I return—as the light

is caught on the horizon—a glow
of opulence through the soldiering corn.