With unlikely conviction, my garden has thrived well into November. Last week I dug up a little white-orange carrot still stubbornly finding its form. It smelled wonderful: fragrant, persistent, alive, a deep-rooted argument against autumn gloom. It stirred up two rabbits, long out of season.
“Senses are quickened by subtile forebodings.”
So sops the chorist by shadow-cold doors.
Blackening leafmeal bletts into mulch,
The cinders spelt from summer pyres
Blaze low before us, blow themselves out.
The wormeled looms, woven blindly,
Fate unpatterning, feast on the ash.
From these I spair my spirit shrinking:
In winter’s wane and withring dark
No thing endures. I thank no one.
Ah. Songs missung spiel but seasonal doom.
Finding their form, fetal hornroots
Clot the bodden; now clawing one free
We breathe, haling brawn and carrick,
Sweaty scrafings, the sweetest persistence,
No lesser life from leafmeal spurned,
And we know: Something censes in gardens
In alway above eyesores and brume-song
That nurtures a savor not known here before.
Craving to taste, we partake, and give thanks.