IV: Seeds Sown In Autumn

Part IV of Saisons du Coeur

for Grace

And when I am at peace, as darkness rises,
As the order, chaos, and the void
Assert themselves in minor harmony
And reestablish semblance of the form
I understand, believe, this world has,
There is a sweet-soft sorrow
As of impotence—as if I read this play
And did not act or author it.

As sparks fly upward, so is man
Borne deep in suffering. Each Autumn,
As hands, leaves, and lives fall vacant,
Aching, to the earth, I find myself,
In sudden clarity, an apex, eye or pole
About which chaos flutters.

No intention—unless habit be conflated
Therewith—lies on these weak shoulders...
Only, somehow, those about me fragment
In this season—burst in sudden, unexpected,
Shape and hue and scatter—starlike—
Into air and dust.


Oh, Muse of Fire—you, who spoke at Agincourt—
Lend me your tongue... or steal mine,
For I know not the words
To capture dust and light
And reassemble form into the shape
Creation had in mind.
I know only how to stand—
In fear and trembling—and weep...

• Minor edits on 11/15/2025 to correct a typo and slight formatting issue

It’ll be cold again before you know it, but by then we might be full up, so why not