It waxed with autumn, when the leaves— 
Dogwood, oak, and sycamore— 
Avalanched the yard and slipped
Like unpaid bills beneath the door. 

In winter it gave off a warmth
And held its ground against the snow, 
The barrow of the buried year,
The swelling that spring stirred below. 

In summer, we’d identify
The volunteers and green recruits,
A sapling apple or a pear
That stemmed from bruised or bitten fruits. 

And everything we threw away 
And we forgot, would by and by 
Return to earth, or drop its seed 
Take root and start to ramify. 

We left the garden in the fall—
You turned the heap up with the rake 
And startled latent in its heart
The dark glissando of a snake.