A Plan for Winter
My days are breathless with silence.
Sunlight takes a richer hue
As our little earth hurtles
Towards its long winter nights.
Your notes arrive; one in many days.
There is no hurry now for
Another summer is turning in its
Bed of windblown leaves.
When the bear sleeps under its
Bare blanket of snowy earth,
On pages as pearly as the bark
Of birches, I will write you, Dear
Stranger, few words in coal black.
My Poems
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the richness of autumn
I like these lines of yours:
There is no hurry now for Another summer is turning in its Bed of windblown leaves.
But even more I like the idea of the melancholic richness of autumn. I tried to write about this once. Why does it seem so rich? Is it a trick of the light? Or a trick of the mind? And why is it that in these moments I always dwell on losses. Perhaps because those memories will flower more optimistically in spring.
BB
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Rilke's "Autumn Day"
says it all, BB, says all one would want to say about autumn. As for how our minds turn with the seasons, I think that is perhaps instinctual. And as Rilke says in his poem, write long letters, and get it all out. :)
-S
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