October (section I)

　　by Louise Glück

　　 Is it winter again， is it cold again，

　　 didn't Frank just slip on the ice，

　　 didn't he heal， weren't the spring seeds planted

　　 didn't the night end，

　　 didn't the melting ice

　　 flood the narrow gutters

　　 wasn't my body

　　 rescued， wasn't it safe

　　 didn't the scar form， invisible

　　 above the injury

　　 terror and cold，

　　 didn't they just end， wasn't the back garden

　　 harrowed and planted--

　　 I remember how the earth felt， red and dense，

　　 in stiff rows， weren't the seeds planted，

　　 didn't vines climb the south wall

　　 I can't hear your voice

　　 for the wind's cries， whistling over the bare ground

　　 I no longer care

　　 what sound it makes

　　 when was I silenced， when did it first seem

　　 pointless to describe that sound

　　 what it sounds like can't change what it is--

　　 didn't the night end， wasn't the earth

　　 safe when it was planted

　　 didn't we plant the seeds，

　　 weren't we necessary to the earth，

　　 the vines， were they harvested？