At half past six in August, two trees,

Yellowing to bronze, bordered our mowed field.

It was toward evening and September, going cold.

A blue chair stood in the grass.

This is what it was.

Wishing I do not know what rush of joy among us,

The boy child in the old summer farm house

At noon had us to the meadow with steak and corn.

Cloud mapping the blue after,

We three had sprawled on blankets of sun

And almost slept.

He later and we brought back to the house

The table, the milk, the spoons, the lucky idea.

Looking out after sunset, I saw it,

The one chair blue there in green grass,

Human and his.

This is the way the world runs down.

But I was for leaving it out

To remember the day by.