But October is passing quickly and soon neither sound will be frequent. By the end of this week another sound is due, though, when there will be more rain. One more mild day tomorrow, and then cold precedes the storm. Outside I hear not only acorns falling, but the frequent descent of leaves that brush, as they seek the ground, those as yet still far more numerous still clinging to the twigs.
The woods are paused at that moment between life and decay, and mere weeks remain until the moon will shine on exposed arboreal bones and lace the ground with their shadows. I go out to enjoy the last sweet exhalations of the gardenias soon to drop crinkled brown petals among the fallen oak leaves. Green and white will both have gone brown, as autumn devours more of last spring's works. And now I'm thinking about pears and persimmons. The season of spice looms. A fair trade.
Try to Praise the Mutilated World
by Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes