REGION OF MEMORY  

It is the cycle that penetrates.
It opens in the quiet hour. 

I hear the grinding earth wheel 
around the sun once more; oaks 
sprout, the future appears 
through washed away mud. The mind 
remembers itself in a multitude of 
poses; a golden chain through rings 
we have made. They glower in dying
sunlight to make pictures of everyday
life lost to the speed in things.

We do not say, yay or nay, but merely 
sit in the house of the old and talk 
    about the coming season. 

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