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On Browning's Words On Autumn
"Autumn wins you best by this its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay."
--Robert Browning
"I want to understand why Fall," you said
"Cries out to you with such a glorious voice
When what I see is death in fallen leaves:
decay which marks the slow descent to ice."
When rhythms slow to meet the coming cold
and leaves lie crumbling everywhere they fall
and ocean bleeds into gunmetal sky:
Then fire and life and bravery reply.
II
I used to be a lover of the spring;
I fell in love with newly greening leaves
and joyful streams and longings in the air
and every soul bound, thrumming, for rebirth.
I loved it for its abstract hope for life.
And still in May I love it yet, and when
my blood beats thunder in my ears and I
rejoice in rain and green metallic sky
I must recant: like Galileo who
turned cycles of the stars all on their ears
I save myself: I love the spring the best.
We love spring for it frees us from the dark
of endless nights sucked towards the solstice eve:
Then spring struts in all smug and sly and coy
presenting first the lion, then the lamb.
Spring owes us nothing: summer's coming on
to pay off all its campaign promises.
So Browning was a pessimist, I think,
to walk in beauty and to turn away:
As if the Autumn needs his sympathy.
III
My symbolism falls to dust and ash.
The tang of leaf fires burning in my nose:
the surf of dead leaves swirling underfoot:
the season's bite of newly sharpened wind:
the shout of colors blazing from the trees:
These whisper: Browning never loved the Fall
or fought his terror long enough to win.
But I have loved the Phoenix on its pyre
and blown on embers from its dying fire
till they awoke and kindled in my eyes.
And I have stoked the spark of rainbow flames
and played the fiddle while I watched them burn.
I've never liked to watch beginnings end.
But Death and I have grown to be good friends.
IV
The swan when dying sings a final song
and fades, the last note throbbing in her throat.
In Fall the song is russet, gold and orange
its throat the limbs that scratch against the sky
and wear soft gloves that tumble, one by one.
If Autumn's mute I'll never find a voice
to sing my swan song just to rise again.
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