The Writers' Circle

At the seal of autumn
when the golden leaf and the summer grass
kowtow to surrender to the hoary frost;

At the terminus of sunshine,
the beginning of Sundays with none;
At the cusp of winter's dominion:

There is the sense that, once again,
the earth is reaped, asleep,
and ready to renew.

There is the sense that the quietus that winter brings
is favourable; that vacancy exists
to invite new things in and to let old things go;

So why should I be reluctant to be old -
and to be usurped and replaced
when this is the quiddity of things?

Why should I hanker unrequitedly after spring
when spring is independent of me
and indifferent?

Because the haecceity of me, and every leaf,
and every migratory bird that does not make it to and fro
is squandered, it occurs to me;

Because the casualties of the seasons are unique
and irreplaceable in their own ways -
even the humble leaf;

Because the casualties of the seasons seem to be
forever lost; because indifferent time ticks on
and is unstoppable.

*

At the cusp of spring
when the hoary frost
kowtows to surrender to the nascent bud.

At the terminus of winter,
the beginning of Sundays with plenty;
At the seal of winter's dominion;

There is the sense that
the quietus that winter brought
brought continuity;

And evidence that the haecceity
of living things
is not lost totally:

The new bud buds upon the same twig
and with the same intent
that its precursors did;

The bird that nests here or there
does so because - and in full knowledge that -
its begetters did;

And every newborn has part of the manner or the hair
or the baa or the bark of its forebears,
perhaps atavistically;

Hence winter is not final anyhow;
and to life, or to the essence of life,
death is surmountable.

September 18th 2006