Another year gone, leaving everywhere
It's rich spiced residues. vines leaves,
the underneath fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island
of this summer, of this Now, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries-roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This
I try to remember, when times measure,
painfully chafes, for instance, when Autumn
flares out, at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay-how everything lives shifting
from one bright vision, to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
Mary Oliver