October Reckonings (Anniversarius 9)

The seasons merge: from a sunless autumn,
to winter without snow. What month it is,
is anybody’s guess. The yard goes dry,
the grapes cut back turn brittle; brown
sparrows tramp noisily for last desserts
on arbor top; ailanthus arms take on
a sere and whiter hue, no trace
of tropic sprays of verdure now, no flag
like native trees, of where the green had been
(perhaps they migrate and plant themselves
on other trees!) It is a time
of reckonings, to heap the harvest up
and count each gain against its cost.


Little it means to measure what was lost —
the never had’s a finer feast to sup.
It has a wine (whoever sees
the cask forgets himself and imitates
its salty plaint) from where the grapes had been,
of tears and rust and vanities, no flag
sincere of deeds or worth, no brace
of reason’s air; drinking us in it sprouts
its arrows from inside our hearts.
It speaks of love, its tendrils crown
arbors without leaves. What year is it?
All lonely autumns are alike
at winter’s verge.


— December 19, 1976, New York

This poem is a "mirror." The second stanza attempts, loosely, to write "backwards," echoing lines, sounds, and construction from the first stanza. Thus, the opening phrase "The seasons merge" shows up at the very end of stanza 2 as "at winter's verge." The final line of stanza 1, "and count each gain against its cost" becomes the first line of stanza 2 as "Little it means to measure what was lost." Even the actions in stanza 2 are backwards: arrows sprouting from inside hearts, a feast with an empty wine cask that drinks in the reveler, tendrils on a leafless arbor. Lack is everwhere from the first stanza: sunless autumn, snowless winter.