And the garden fires are burning

[sovay]

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.

Comments

[asakiyume.livejournal.com]

Maybe it's not that the ghosts rise up at this time of year so much as I begin to feel like one myself.

That's it, exactly.

The grapes are turning slowly to wine on the withering vines--slow wine instead of sloe gin, withering vines to go with whither the season?

[tithenai.livejournal.com]

This reads like an exerpt from a beautiful novel.

[ap-aelfwine.livejournal.com]

Lovely.

And I know a lot of those feelings, all too well.

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.

Yes. That's it.

I'm reading Swift and suchlike authors now, and I find myself slipping into their idiom. I was talking with a classmate this afternoon, about one of the texts, and describing which passage I meant, I found myself saying "I mind me of it by..."

I would the ghosts would have converse of me direct, for I wot we all might profit by it. This business of teasing at the edge of my consciousness does not suit, but I suppose they must be given no other means of intercourse with the quick.

[shewhomust.livejournal.com]

Well, technically it can't be a poem, I suppose; perhaps it's a prose? Whatever it is, I like it.