Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung.
Let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
– Jane Kenyon
Last weekend I read Donald Hall’s The Best Day the Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon and it devastated me. Plain-spoken and hugely powerful, this book is an elegy for his life’s great companion, gone too soon. In his hands, the everyday shimmers.
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