The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go or driven like hail stream bitterly out to one side and fall where the salvias, hard carmine,— like no leaf that ever was— edge the bare garden.

  — William Carlos Williams (1883 – [...]]]> APPROACH OF WINTER

The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine,—
like no leaf that ever was—
edge the bare garden.

  — William Carlos Williams (1883 – 1963)

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season Changes its tense in the long-haired maples That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition With the final remaining cardinals) and then Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last Settling into colorful layers carpeting [...]]]> FALL

Fall, falling, fallen. That’s the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees
In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager
And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever
Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun
Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance,
A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud
Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything
Changes and moves in the split second between summer’s
Sprawling past and winter’s hard revision, one moment
Pulling out of the station according to schedule,
Another moment arriving on the next platform. It
Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away
From their branches and gather slowly at our feet,
Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving
Around us even as its colorful weather moves us,
Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets.
And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.

  — Edward Hirsch (b. 1950)

Bone-spur, stirrup of veins—white colt a tree, sapling bone again, worn to a splinter, a steeple, the birch aground

in its ravine of leaves. Abide with me, arrive at its skinned branches, its arms pulled from the sapling, your wrist taut,

each ganglion a gash in the tree’s rent trunk, a child’s hackwork, love [...]]]> BIRCH

Bone-spur, stirrup of veins—white colt
a tree, sapling bone again, worn to a splinter,
a steeple, the birch aground

heard it, the root moss lit gas,
like the veins on your ink-stained hand—
the birch all elbows, taking us in.

  — Cynthia Zarin (b. 1959)

What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love Is upon the world. Yellow, yellow, yellow, It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branches that lean Heavily Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light— [...]]]> A LOVE SONG

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?

  — William Carlos Williams (1883 – 1963), American Poet.

Wind in almond blossoms. Ants on limestone mountains. Cézanne’s bones in red earth. Countless vines on red earth. Black wine on oak tables. They drink love or hate as The old plane trees blossom. They drink coffee or pastis Under the blowing young leaves. Under feathery pines, On red and gray hillsides, Hidden from [...]]]> SPRING

Wind in almond blossoms.
Ants on limestone mountains.
Cézanne’s bones in red earth.
Countless vines on red earth.
Black wine on oak tables.
They drink love or hate as
The old plane trees blossom.
They drink coffee or pastis
Under the blowing young leaves.
Under feathery pines,
On red and gray hillsides,
Hidden from the mistral,
Two by two they make love.
In red sand pits, squad by squad,
Soldiers shoot at paper men.

— Kenneth Rexroth (1905 – 1982), American Beat poet and translator

after the downpour, in the early evening, late sunlight glinting off the raindrops sliding down the broad backs of the redbud leaves beside the porch, beyond the railing, each leaf bending and springing back and bending again beneath the dripping,                      between existences, ecstatic, the souls grow mischievous, they break ranks, swerve from [...]]]> JUST

after the downpour, in the early evening,
late sunlight glinting off the raindrops sliding
down the broad backs of the redbud leaves
beside the porch, beyond the railing, each leaf
bending and springing back and bending again
beneath the dripping,
                     between existences,
ecstatic, the souls grow mischievous, they break ranks,
swerve from the rigid V’s of their migration,
their iron destinies, down to the leaves
they flutter in among, rising and settling,
bodiless, but pretending to have bodies,

Nothing will make you less afraid.

  — Alan Shapiro (b. 1952)

Walking in the mountains unconsciously trudging along grab a vine climb another ridge

Standing in the mountains how many dawns become dusk plant a pine a tree of growing shade

Sitting in the mountains zig-zag yellow leaves fall nobody comes close the door and make a big fire

Lying in the mountains [...]]]> FOUR MOUNTAIN POSTURES

Walking in the mountains
unconsciously trudging along
grab a vine
climb another ridge

Lying in the mountains
pine wind enters the ears
for no good reason
beautiful dreams are blown apart

  — Stonehouse [Shih Wu] (1272 – 1352), Chinese monk and poet. Translation by Red Pine.

The brief secrets are still here,                              and the light has come back. The word remember touches my hand, But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel Against the occluded sky. All of the little names sink down,                              weighted with what is [...]]]> WORDS AND THE DIMINUTION OF ALL THINGS

The brief secrets are still here,
                             and the light has come back.
The word remember touches my hand,
But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel
Against the occluded sky.
All of the little names sink down,
                             weighted with what is invisible,
But no one will utter them, no one will smooth their rumpled hair.

All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us
                                   out of the
       Blue Ridge.
All afternoon the leaves have scuttled
Across the sidewalk and driveway, clicking their clattery claws.
And now the evening is over us,
Small slices of silence
                   running under a dark rain,
Wrapped in a larger.

  — Charles Wright (b. 1935), American poet.

Listen. . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees And fall.

  — Adelaide Crapsey

IT IS THE TIME OF RAIN AND SNOW

It is the time of rain and snow I spend sleepless nights And watch the frost Frail as your love [...]]]> NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen. . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

  — Adelaide Crapsey

IT IS THE TIME OF RAIN AND SNOW

It is the time of rain and snow
I spend sleepless nights
And watch the frost
Frail as your love
Gathers in the dawn.

  — Izumi Shikibu, translated by Kenneth Rexroth

Both lying on our sides, making love in spoon position when she’s startled, What’s that? She means the enormous ship passing before you— maybe not that large, is it a freighter

or a passenger ship? But it seems huge in the dark and it’s so close. That’s a poem you say, D. H. Lawrence—Have [...]]]>

AUTUMN

Both lying on our sides, making love in
spoon position when she’s startled, What’s that?
She means the enormous ship passing before you—
maybe not that large, is it a freighter

that’s what the brave musicians played as the Titanic
went under—and then you could name this poem “Autumn.”
But no, the ship is silent, its white lights glow in the darkness.

  — Richard Garcia

WHEN AUTUMN CAME

This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.

  — Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911 – 1984), Indian/Pakistani poet.