Jack

The wagons stand
And rust, and glitter sometimes in the moon,
Since we have lost dominion of the fields.
No more great clattering Jack,
His thick mane filled with chaff and wind,
Will let us lead him from the easy barns;
No more sweet gentle Jack
Will let us strap him to his leather bondage
And help us tow the weight of summer home.

The days
Are easier now, and we have time for thought,
Idling in corners of our weedy land.
But now we learn, as season follows season
And no one plants upon these hills,
How poor a gift is freedom to the spirit
That loved the labor. Now, like Jack,
We stand turned out into eternal Sunday,
And look through moonlight at the silenced wagons.

Yet we have lives to balance our regret,
Can turn to other things.
Now in the moonlight we can move away,
While he is left staring upon the stark
Arrangement of the wagons leaning earthward:
The simple blood that cannot name its lack,
But knows the world has fallen out of reason,
That it is autumn, and no laborer comes.