“A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.”
- Khalil Gibran
Speaking of poets of unearthly excellence, it must be time for my yearly posting of this Rilke poem.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander along the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
- translated by Stephen Mitchell
And this one seems perfect, too. Is it possible, I wonder, to take September straight? Though we should try.
by Mary Jo Salter
How hard it is to take September
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.
Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning—or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.
How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand
at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees
summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,
as soon as one leaf's off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy.
One morning, after the snow and before the big frost, I took endless sunflower photos, again. And because it's the last of them, the last of the garden, really, I'm indulging myself and posting pretty much all of them....
These last two photos taken at about the same time with different settings on the camera.