after Rilke
It’s time. The summer’s over now for good.
The hayricks’ shadows reach across the fields,
and bluejays have decamped for other woods.
Moss thickens on the rocks. There’s no appeal.
At last, come savor tannins in the sacred
wine, fruit that’s bursting on the wild tendrils.
Each pumpkin plumps upon the sumptuous acres.
Sunkissed, heart-stopping poppies disassemble.
Yet subtleties of light are all you have
until you wander where the darkness settles.
Long days of languor, letters, coupling, travel
soon fade as quick as breath in winter weather.
Now back and forth you’d walk about the earth,
for what? since nothing can redeem you. Nothing.
Not consolations you might glean from art,
not faith your heart has never put enough in.