In Conclusion

Abbie Houston Evans

If I could live year-round upon this hill
I should be wiser, but I could not prove
Even then some things I know: say what you will,
The sweet-fern leans against the log for love.

Beyond the reach of argument with me
Is the purple on the shingles of the shed
That kindles as the sun sinks. When I see
Mist fill the lowlands as I go to bed,

I know I am through with cleverness, I know
That earth’s great pulse ignores it: though it run
It cannot overtake that logic slow,
Uncontroverted, making nine fields one.