It Is the Season

when we learn
or do not learn
to say goodbye.

The crone leaves that as green 
virgins opened themselves
to sun, creak at our feet

and all farewells return
to crowd the air:
say, Chinese lovers by a bridge,

with crows, and a waterfall;
He will cross
the bridge, the crows fly;

children who told each other 
secrets, and will not speak
next summer,

Some speech of parting 
mentions God, as in 
a Dieu, Adios,

commending what cannot
be kept
to permanence.

There is nothing of north
unknown, as the dark 
comes earlier.  The birds

take their lives in their wings
for the cruel trip;
all farewells are rehearsals.

Darling, the sun rose
later today.
Summer, summer

is what we had.
Say nothing yet.
Prepare.

By Josepine Jacobsen

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