1. The Wild Geese

    Horseback on Sunday morning,
    harvest over, we taste persimmon
    and wild grape, sharp sweet
    of summer’s end. In time’s maze
    over fall fields, we name names
    that went west from here, names
    that rest on graves. We open
    a persimmon seed to find the tree
    that stands in promise,
    pale, in the seed’s marrow.
    Geese appear high over us,
    pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
    as in love or sleep, holds
    them to their way, clear,
    in the ancient faith: what we need
    is here. And we pray, not
    for new earth or heaven, but to be
    quiet in heart, and in eye
    clear. What we need is here.


    By Wendell Berry