Night Farm

By Jan Zwicky

This time, you visit in the middle of the day.

Outside, rare sunshine; the unruffled pond

deep in its January dream.
.
But you come again as you were, as you must

still be, in the night; the aspens

like a rank of disused swords,

hoar on the pebbles of the lane,

receding snowlight in the fields.

Dreamless.
.
The way we are

when we believe we are no longer loved.