Ash

By Linda Pastan

We fall l­ike leaves,
anonymous as snow,
like ash, like weeds
under some farmer’s hoe.

We fear the dark
and watch the light recede.
We know death smiles
on every child conceived.

The moon goes on,
relentless in the sky;
in cold complicity,
the stars comply.

Remember me.
(How did it grow so late?)
Anonymous,
I turn the page. I wait.

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2007/08/ash/306045/