Lawrence Hall
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https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Autumn is Life Writing its Autobiography

Autumn is not the end of summer, nor yet
Is autumn the beginning of winter; it is
Itself. Autumn is not between anything
Autumn is the culmination of seasons

The seed that slept beneath winter’s cold death
Arose in spring, a resurrection of itself
And grew its summer strength through work and sweat
And in September finished, and mopped its brow

Surveying all its cosmography
Autumn is life writing its biography

We sat and sounded beliefs
as the leaves chose to dance
with an almost panic
as if the chance wouldn’t come again
and the floor would be cleared

Clarity, for now, only coming
from this brittle winter light
that in high contrast picks out sad details
that murky days hide better

I will cry, I guess, tomorrow
or another day that would’ve been ours
the hours will let me know
I’m sure

autumn drinks heavily
slides into winter black
singing old songs in the dark
of loss and lack
and imperfect memory

these months weigh more:
grit under the eyelid
cold **** in the soul weight
that scratches and suffocates

but the coals will glow
and windows steam the same,
inside from time to time
and safe

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.

In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

My eye moves down to the *** of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon's blood ray.

We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time

It is time

by Paul Celan

The lies that autumn tells
it hides in these leaves,
like a sleight of branch
you’ll be misdirected
from the dun, dying land
as you revel in amber and gold
falsehoods

The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.