rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Summer's Envoi

September saved its best day for last. There is, when luck holds, always a day that is the soft echo of summer, mild and bright, when the green of the leaves about to change is still dominant, and the air seems to pause and take a breath before the world goes tumbling into autumn. That was today. With a bit more luck there might be a few more perfect days in October, but probably not very many, and none quite like this.

It's going to get very chilly tonight, and stay cool for the next several days, and the furnace is apt to be working quite a bit before morning. Rain is still possible on Wednesday, and even more so on Wednesday, so maybe we'll be lucky enough to be hearing water running through the downspout this week. It will be a nice change from the noisy little crickets who are still insisting that summer is not over. They'll find out.

Sunday Verse

Sheltered Garden

by H.D.

I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest—
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,

I have had enough—
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch—
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent—
only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light—
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit—
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
With a russet coat.

Or the melon—
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste—
it is better to taste of frost—
the exquisite frost—
than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves—
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince—
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.


  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.