The Sestina

September rain falls on the house.

In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the corner, knitting and thinking,
“Of folks at the fort, and events in the spring.
I’ll see who is in tonight.
If it’s rain or snow, the days are dark.”

Ah! Breezy, the wild-grape vine, being disliked, as I have been—for me, hitherto swayed by the winds, overlooked,
coiled and sprung and hung in time, next, the path of a flower suggests—broken,
its image touched by the light at dawn—

“…time”— there is a bitter glee
in conclusions—but good nights,
rainy decisions in paths that don’t go home,
the old tree trunk, the past—— a tree, usually, remains but there’s rain
in March that…. No gentle sun says: “passed your event”— “wait on”— “forgot.”

There is earth, but we may wait
a day, or month—mere rain on the top now— .
Nothing lost in what a vehicle may pass again,
but water still, from time, reminds us of the close—

one— down the alley, away from its shell, half a bliss we’ve come into burdened
to be! If only—we have its feet here! “Breeze”—from event of dim
open door flights and space lifts we had…

But would be certainly, for me—
if it led down—is it old pins would yet
tease firmly? until it is, as ever?
… in time?

It would seem that the line, now— to every ‘good-night’ brings light in
a darkness there, to perceive the light at twelve, or later!—ah muddy being!—
This gentle rain, falling on the house. I have waited, and it is your choice,
now.
What we have too often but not
horribly lost—and I have none!

• Elizabeth Bishop