Fox Sleep

On a road through the mountains with a friend many years ago

I came to a curve on a slope where a clear stream

flowed down flashing across dark rocks through its own

echoes that could neither be caught nor forgotten

it was the turning of autumn and already

the mornings were cold with ragged clouds in the hollows

long after sunrise but the pasture sagging like a roof

the glassy water and flickering yellow leaves

in the few poplars and knotted plum trees were held up

in a handful of sunlight that made the slates on the silent

mill by the stream glisten white above their ruin

and a few relics of the life before had been arranged

in front of the open mill house to wait

pale in the daylight out on the open mountain

after whatever they had been made for was over

the dew was drying on them and there were few who took that road

who might buy one of them and take it away somewhere

to be unusual to be the only one

to become unknown a wooden bed stood there on rocks

a cradle the color of dust a cracked oil jar iron pots

wooden wheels iron wheels stone wheels the tall box of a clock

and among them a ring of white stone the size of an

embrace set into another of the same size

an iron spike rising from the ring where the wooden

handle had fitted that turned it in its days as a hand mill

you could see if you looked closely that the top ring

that turned in the other had been carved long before in the form

of a fox lying nose in tail seeming to be

asleep the features worn almost away where it

had gone around and around grinding grain and salt

to go into the dark and to go on and remember

* * *

What I thought I had left I kept finding again

but when I went looking for what I thought I remembered

as anyone could have foretold it was not there

when I went away looking for what I had to do

I found that I was living where I was a stranger

but when I retraced my steps the familiar vision

turned opaque and all surface and in the wrong places

and the places where I had been a stranger appeared to me

to be where I had been at home called by name and answering

getting ready to go away and going away

* * *

Every time they assembled and he spoke to them

about waking there was an old man who stood listening

and left before the others until one day the old man stayed

and Who are you he asked the old man

and the old man answered I am not a man

many lives ago I stood where you are standing

and they assembled in front of me and I spoke to them

about waking until one day one of them asked me

When someone has wakened to what is really there

is that person free of the chain of consequences

and I answered yes and with that I turned into a fox

and I have been a fox for five hundred lives

and now I have come to ask you to say what will

free me from the body of a fox please tell me

when someone has wakened to what is really there

is that person free of the chain of consequences

and this time the answer was That person sees it as it is

then the old man said Thank you for waking me

you have set me free of the body of the fox

which you will find on the other side of the mountain

I ask you to bury it please as one of your own

that evening he announced a funeral service

for one of them but they said nobody has died

then he led them to the other side of the mountain

and a cave where they found a fox’s body

and he told them the story and they buried the fox

as one of them but later one of them asked

what if he had given the right answer every time

* * *

Once again I was there and once again I was leaving

and again it seemed as though nothing had changed

even while it was all changing but this time

was a time of ending this time the long marriage was over

the orbits were flying apart it was autumn again

sunlight tawny in the fields where the shadows

each day grew longer and the still afternoons

ripened the distance until the sun went down

across the valley and the full moon rose out of the trees

it was the time of year when I was born and that evening

I went to see friends for the last time and I came back

after midnight along the road white with the moon

I was crossing the bars of shadow and seeing ahead of me

the wide silent valley full of silver light

and there just at the corner of the land that I had

come back to so many times and now was leaving

at the foot of the wall built of pale stone I saw the body

stretched in the grass and it was a fox a vixen

just dead with no sign of how it had come to happen

no blood the long fur warm in the dewy grass

nothing broken or lost or torn or unfinished

I carried her home to bury her in the garden

in the morning of the clear autumn that she had left

and to stand afterward in the turning daylight

* * *

There are the yellow beads of the stonecrops and the twisted flags

of dried irises knuckled into the hollows

of moss and rubbly limestone on the waves of the low wall

the ivy has climbed along them where the weasel ran

the light has kindled to gold the late leaves of the cherry tree

over the lane by the house chimney there is the roof

and the window looking out over the garden

summer and winter there is the field below the house

there is the broad valley far below them all with the curves

of the river a strand of sky threaded through it

and the notes of bells rising out of it faint as smoke

and there beyond the valley above the rim of the wall

the line of mountains I recognize like a line of writing

that has come back when I had thought it was forgotten

Source: Poetry (October 1992)