Easy to Pack

THE books go back into the box
With sweaters, starfish, sandy shells,
My typewriter has rusty locks
(Much fog this year with lonely bells),
The landlord spider takes on my estate,
He’ll fasten doors and not procrastinate.

How did white sailboats set like quills
In vast blue ink; long hours of sun,
Cloud shadows floating on the hills
Add up to weeks of work undone?
Can summer be contained in this small store
Of ferns and mosses from a balsam floor ?

Now close the trunks, but fold in these —
Red ember caves beneath gold logs,
Evening’s pale light on rusty trees,
Tight yellow mushrooms, brackish bogs,
Against the subway hour, do find a chink
For lobster traps and gulls that sit and think.