H. L. Davis

TODAY burn tree-prunings. Dead branches are cut and piled

And the soft-stemmed grass broken and raked to kindle them.

Rain beats a little light dust up from the sand.

This is the time when birds come to pick the grass-seed

Exposed, white on the ground sweetened with dead roots

Grown since you marked the scoured furrows with your name.

You made prints of your breasts here when you were lately grown,

But they are beaten out; and all the dog-fennel

Is burned, that stung your eyes with its white bitter dust.

O dead sister, your pride keeps seasons like the birds.