Joanna Newsom

Driven through by her own sword,
summer died last night, alone.
Even the ghosts
huddled up for warmth.
Autumn has come to my hometown.
Friendly voices, dead and gone,
singing, Star of the country down...
(even the ghosts help raise the barn,
here, now, in my hometown)
--when, out of the massing
that bodes and bides, in the cold west,
flew a waxwing, who froze
and died against my breast!
All the while, rain,
like a weed in the tide,
swans and lists, down
on the gossiping lawns,
saying tsk tsk tsk.
I may have changed. It's hard to gauge.
Time won't account for how I've aged.
Would I could tie your lying tongue,
who says that leaving keeps you young.
I have got no control
over my heart, over my mind.
Over the hills, the rainclouds roll.
I'll winter here, wait for a sign
to cast myself
out, over the water,
riven like a wishbone.