At My Kitchen Window

From where I sit, Autumn is beautiful:
By every shade, by every scent dappled,
And shrouded in a mystery distinct from every other earthly mystery.
The seasons all stir in jealousy in her presence,
For she encompasses in all of her mysteries all of theirs:
She sings in the citrus flavors of summer,
The oranges hot and sparkling like globed fruit against her gray sky;
And burgundy blossoms fill the air with the scent of new life,
Hanging from the trees and assailing the ground in a shower,
Fallen yet triumphant;
And the brown crunch beneath the feet of all her jubilant children
Prepares the ground for winter.

Nature, all your seasons surround the Autumn thrust:
They crawl before her, stand in awe
And clamor to be nearer to her encompassing mystery.

In Memoriam R.M.R.

You, German panther-author,
You who grabbed in wide white fists the Truth of the thing,
You with great eyes racing over images
To make the image eternal, and the eternal ours:
You were struck down in your haste for a flower,
Struck down to touch the beauty of the artifice.
You bled its crimson color and died there in the soil
To gather in your body all that is life:
You, the teeming silt of flowering earth,
You, the eternal Truth of the thing.