Now the sun is in autumn: crisp and moonlit the night before last, palely bright yesterday, today already grey and granite-clouded—if still greener—as November. More than any other, this season for me is stamped and overstamped with past years, so that there are fossils in each amber sunset, currents of faces in the chilling turn of the wind. I am returning home by an older route. I am reading by the wrong light. This is not the bed I should wake up in. Maybe it's not that the ghosts rise up at this time of year so much as I begin to feel like one myself. Two days ago, a hawk was brooding in the honey locust. The grapevines are tangling to the earth.
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- 1: Left you breathless in the brine
- 2: Put your boots on, do they fit you comfortably?
- 3: God knows what indiscretions I committed
- 4: Are there some aces up your sleeve? Have you no idea that you're in deep?
- 5: One to sing and one to haul and one to heave me when I fall
- 6: This is what water, wind and time and toil reveal
- 7: We're the ones who stand here now, but many others will again
- 8: And the shrouds hum full of the gale of the grave and the keel goes out to the sea
- 9: Cormorant to rock, gulls from the storm
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