My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer

by Mark Strand
     1
     When the moon appears
     and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
     in the low-domed hills
     and shine with a light
     that is veiled and dust-filled
     and that floats upon the fields，
     my mother， with her hair in a bun，
     her face in shadow， and the smoke
     from her cigarette coiling close
     to the faint yellow sheen of her dress，
     stands near the house
     and watches the seepage of late light
     down through the sedges，
     the last gray islands of cloud
     taken from view， and the wind
     ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat
     on the black bay.
     2
     Soon the house， with its shades drawn closed， will send
     small carpets of lampglow
     into the haze and the bay
     will begin its loud heaving
     and the pines， frayed finials
     climbing the hill， will seem to graze
     the dim cinders of heaven.
     And my mother will stare into the starlanes，
     the endless tunnels of nothing，
     and as she gazes，
     under the hour's spell，
     she will think how we yield each night
     to the soundless storms of decay
     that tear at the folding flesh，
     and she will not know
     why she is here
     or what she is prisoner of
     if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.
     3
     My mother will go indoors
     and the fields， the bare stones
     will drift in peace， small creatures ——
     the mouse and the swift —— will sleep
     at opposite ends of the house.
     Only the cricket will be up，
     repeating its one shrill note
     to the rotten boards of the porch，
     to the rusted screens， to the air， to the rimless dark，
     to the sea that keeps to itself.
     Why should my mother awake？
     The earth is not yet a garden
     about to be turned. The stars
     are not yet bells that ring
     at night for the lost.
     It is much too late.