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Autumn Grasses

Margaret Gibson

In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass
the autumn moon takes refuge
The cricket's song is gold

Zeshin's loneliness taught him this

Who is coming?
What will come to pass, and pass?

Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air
not-knowing
knows the way

And the moon?
Who among us does not wander, and flare
and bow to the ground?

Who does not savor, and stand open
if only in secret

taking heart in the ripening of the moon?

(Shibata Zeshin, Autumn Grasses, two-panel screen)

From Autumn Grasses by Margaret Gibson. Copyright © 2003 by Margaret Gibson. Reproduced with permission of Louisiana State University Press. All rights reserved.

From Autumn Grasses by Margaret Gibson. Copyright © 2003 by Margaret Gibson. Reproduced with permission of Louisiana State University Press. All rights reserved.

Margaret Gibson

by this poet

poem

What little I know, I hold closer, 
more dear, especially now
that I take the daily
reinvention of loss as my teacher.
I will never graduate from this college,
whose M.A. translates
“Master of Absence,”
with a subtext in the imperative:
Misplace Anything.