"Live in the sunshine, swim in sea, drink the wild air."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Map
In the last of the day's light
a small brown bird sings
furrows his fine feathers
gathers, and labors.
The same exchange every day.
The dim beams enter
as a welcoming,
dust floats down
settling on these papers
that are strewn about
obsessively riffled.
I am desperate for cognition.
I trace the dark borderlines
of the map you are moving in
an abstract space that consoles
as we navigate this uncharted territory.
Outside the panes of my window
pink, vibrancy
fire burns in the sky
dwindling like fleeting embers
over naked trees, and
silent smoke stacks.
Inhale, deeply
the cold air inhabits my lungs
takes residence
a reminder of the season's change.
It hangs so silently on each trembling leaf
it is but a moment, until
their journey begins
I can hear it, on the wind
burning in my lungs
grasping me inward,
enveloping.
As the sun subsides into the earth
the days grow shorter, and
the maps become smaller
Guiding me closer to wherever you are.
- R. Grzesik, 2013
Ode to Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
- John Keats, 1819 (written after his own Sunday walk in the countryside)