LOUISE GLÜCK reads "All Hallows"

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one
And the soul creeps out of the tree.
"All Hallows" from The First Four Books of Poems by Louise Gluck.

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I'm not a spoken word artist like other poets. I tend to be attractive to details. Louis Gluck bases her stories around direct, terse descriptions. It feels very resonant now yet I wasn't as enamored with the style before.