The Red Season

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The red season is come; but I have few words
And little reason to say them, if you had heard
Me hoarse, or silent, did you have to pretend?
Of course; both silence and season must end.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
I would write accurately to you of many things
I would draw them each in lines, with black and white
Set against one another in wood-cut relief
In columns and rows and concentric rings.

These letters you see, are they then this clarity
I would have you examine them one by one by one
And see if these really are the words I wrote
The words I set down all so carefully.

I would have these etchings come themselves alive
Of themselves; not as though it was my inspiration
But as though my inspiration was in them and was them
I would if I could, If I could only so strive.

I would make them all glorious things, one by one
Each a varigate coat of pigment and breathing-space
So that the senses would reel with grief and shock
And at a beauty so curious become undone.

Would I make them words, or melodies man sings
Would I draw them out like a breath on a cool day
And intone them long so that the air shimmers
Shimmers where the music then rings?

Or instead would they become an unheard ode
That you carry in your heart through winters and springs
And then no words are needed at all to see
Would I craft them in such a mode?

Words then fail, and I return to handwritten rings
Which are beautiful for just being and being still
Would I never suggest a single word or phrase
Would I then write to you, write to you of many things?


The Last

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
As the fading mist of high autumn's rains
Leaves fog in lowland woods and plains
And the bareness of all but the oak
And foreign cedar removes the cloak
Of the year, which becomes a retiring crone
Rolling up his garments to go rest alone
But we, gathering fuel and drawing in
Gather free, we still-free men
Into our homes, to remember clan
And family, and kind if we still can
And see with gimlet eye the fading day
The last, before the cold belay
With its grip each limb and so withdraw
Into our own and by our law
Of conservation of energy
Action, reaction, but across the lea
Is heard a crack - A rumble there
Was it the train, was it moving where
Came the sound? But we all just wait
And watch to see if it is running late
And the watch ticks long, as if to strain
The last fading mist of high autumn rain.



it is addressed thusly:
an ode.
it reads:
Found riding south windward wise
Amid the promise of solemn season
In autumn sun's northward treason
A moment made of poesy resides
Where smooth road mirrors mild
Comes brightly as dawn is styled
Painted wood all-colored leaf
Did make anew a bas-relief
If wedding-bells did then make sound
Green and gray would the pageant be
With yellow trimmed embroidery
With sky-blue its field and ground
Illuminated there, a brightening train
Of bride-tailor's legedermain
If sunlight, gold were siblings made
Here Jerusalem's ways were newly laid
A brighter earth in heaven's guise
Monet his brush had set aside
Van Gogh his ochre could not decide
If type or truth did here arise
Found riding southward, windward wise.