When
I am alone I am happy.
The air is cool. The sky is
flecked and splashed and wound
with color. The
crimson phalloi
of the
sassafras leaves
hang crowded before me
in shoals on the heavy branches.
When I reach my doorstep
I am greeted by
the happy shrieks of
my children
and my
heart sinks.
I am crushed
Are not my children as dear to me
as
falling leaves or
most one become
stupid
to
grow older?
It seems much as if Sorrow
had
tripped up my heels.
Let us see, let us see!
What did I plan to say to her
when it should happen to me
as it has happened now?
--William Carlos Williams