late in the season

"Over and Over Stitch"
Late in the season the world digs in, the fat blossoms
hold still for just a moment longer.   
Nothing looks satisfied,
but there is no real reason to move on much further:
this isn’t a bad place;   
why not pretend


we wished for it?
The bushes have learned to live with their haunches.   
The hydrangea is resigned
to its pale and inconclusive utterances.
Towards the end of the season
it is not bad


to have the body. To have experienced joy
as the mere lifting of hunger   
is not to have known it   
less. The tobacco leaves   
don’t mind being removed
to the long racks—all uses are astounding


to the used.
There are moments in our lives which, threaded, give us heaven—
noon, for instance, or all the single victories
of gravity, or the kudzu vine,
most delicate of manias,
which has pressed its luck


this far this season.
It shines a gloating green.
Its edges darken with impatience, a kind of wind.
Nothing again will ever be this easy, lives
being snatched up like dropped stitches, the dry stalks of daylilies   
marking a stillness we can’t keep.
~ Jorie Graham

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