After W.S. Merwin

So gradual in those summers was the going
it seemed the apples would always be
almost ripening, the pasture always
thick with clover. Days were green
with snap peas and wild tendrils.
Clematis curled through its trellis,
snapdragons bulged like the throats of frogs
until every blossom sang. I assumed
the breezy song of the veery would spiral
through every afternoon, would loop round
the orchard forever and float through
all of our days. My grandmother baked cookies,
lining the blue counter with round suns
we ate without counting. I thought
she would always only need a twenty-
minute nap, would always move like a bee
from room to room. I did not hear the soil
growing quiet. It was only at night before
sleep when I listened to my grandparents
listening to the weather radio
that I began to hear something increasing
like the height of waves, the chance of frost.