Wallace Gould

From “In Maine”

IT is October. Let us go.

This is the grand finale.

Let us not wait for the curtain.

I am tired of curtains.

Look. The passions of the world are posing,

and Atropos is stepping to the stage.

Look. The gaudy mountains are vain.

They are using the lake as a mirror.

They are peroxide Amazons searching for wrinkles.

Look. The stagehands are already setting the stage for another show.

They are bearing the pumpkins from the fields,

and are pulling down the stacks of beans.

They are ploughing the fields.

They are closing their doors.

Glance at the gorgeous stage once more.

Then let us turn away.

Look. There is a mountainside of yellow maples,

and another mountainside of maples that are crimson.

Look. The meadow is a silken baize.

It is variegated with tawn and green.

The design is of hunters pursuing a fox

followed by dogs that sprawl in the air.

In the beech wood there is another baize—

a baize of flax.

The design is of scurrying chipmunks.

Beneath the pines there is still another baize—

a baize of hemp.

The design is of nervous deer that huddle together.

This is the closing scene. Now let us go—

before the lines of Atropos begin.