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| Herbert Waters, "Les Smith's Barn" |
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, move
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needle
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
Jane Kenyon
A friend shared this poem with me the other day. I fell instantly in love. It reads like a benediction. The words fall assuredly into place, the images clear in my mind's eye. Its as if there could have been no other words chosen, these are so true and fitting. Kenyon may have meant it to be about aging, but I don't feel that so much as I feel its call to just Be. That word "let" in itself - at once an imperative and a submission, a command and an acceptance - is compelling. Every image is restful. Things left undone, things taken up again, quietness, darkness - and behind it all this sense of assurance in spite of unknowns to come. Beautiful. I could go on and on.
