It must be that my early friendship with defeat

Has given me affection for the month of August.

The potato fields belong to early night.

So many times as a boy I sat in the dirt

Among dry cornstalks that gave assurances

Every hour that Francis had his ear to the night.

Columbus’s letters tell us that we will receive

The gifts that mariners all receive at the end

Memories of gold and a grave in the sand.

The shadow of a friend’s hand gives us

Promises similar to those we received from

The light under the door as our mother came near.

I am the father who wept for Joseph.

I am the sparrow that flies through the warrior’s

Hall and back out into the falling snow.

I don’t know why these images should please me

So much; an angel said: “In the last moment before night

Brahms will show you how loyal the notes are.”