They stare, amused, at the ancient scene, no
Words come to them, only infinite phrases
Concerning the sunlight bleaching porch floors,
Mild rains and November, the length in years
Of stairways bound toward the portico,
Old people lost in the long hour of dusk.
And near them, on a difficult errand,
Somewhere in the autumn yard,
Distracted, roams the child,.
Three paces in the haze, a likely figure
Leading vague crowds among apple trees,
Watching the wind unbuckle his shoulder,
Invited by silence, suggestion, and tears--
A comical boy,vanquished on his knees.
The illustrious old couple, doubled
Up with mute laughter, on the veranda
Overlooking a bottomless dusk, are
Name for the famed Rosaceous tree--
Here a retarded, southern wind plays, a
Kitten stripping ribbons at their feet;
Rain drops mildly on his outstretched hand,
Its ignorant melodies failing to persuade
Him from contemplations of privacy,
Black mirrors reflecting yellow leaves.
And the dusk’s cool, quiet enclosure
Serves his memory, like endless space.
A child, lowering twilight with his eyes,
Surrenders secret footsteps to the grass,
Inventing codes of loyalty to error;
The dull whistle of the low wind, and the
Glitters of farcical lights attract him
Through the orchard where hangs
Like an image faintly reminiscent,
A defeat, a summons, a great apology--
Boughs of pale yellow and ambrosial green.
The hilarious pair, Rose and Redeemer,
In mustard gowns and wicker chairs, attempt
To discern other faces around them,
Admonishing the kitten for his casual play . . .
He suggests he adjust the porchlight to low,
She suggests if she lower her tone so light,
They whisper together: we mean the same thing.
Her fingers remove several folds of gown,
Loosening formless shadows in flight;
She curves her shawl, so as to include
Familiar tremors, like a memory
Of gardens, gloves soaked in autumn air.
And he casts her a realistic glance.
“I like the moon, but love your pale brooch.”
Dogs bark from the hollow, day is gone;
Abject murmurs, vague crowds, precede the
Arbitrary child, as he apprehends
Special inflections in familiar voices,
Inclining curves among the copper trees.
Shuffling the bushes the wind arranges
Pleasant galleries of known faces, just
Incomplete, in pink and bronze relief. And
As the sunlight falls short of the porch floor,
Two rocking chairs hum in the empty air.
And the dusk, which interlocks, has a
Lone spectator. The autumn, which keeps,
Has a private caretaker, in the orchard
Where he feels he is surrounded by
Voices and footsteps, famous echoes . . .
He makes a wide, magnificent scan
Over rock and bush, in surveillance of
Handmade paths and remembered lands--
Amber leaves turning brittle in his gaze,
Miscast winds reddening his small hands.
Long ago, he has seen them,
Gazing for the limits,
Bending and picking,
Under a drifting fixture of trees,
Standing in November, under absent skies,
Heard them calling, under framed doorways.
Now in his eyes the seasons fade,
Dead faces mar the leaves . . .
Why is he always standing here, in this
Unexpected clearing . . . recounting lives
That dazzle among branches, and disappear
Among one another, like thoughts of gloom,
Conversing of whether he’ll retrieve a
Jacket that lies in a bad of dark roses
By the foot of a withering apple tree,
Should he kneel in the pale, unfocused grass,
The weight of frail limbs curving his back.
His duty is nothing but to create
An ambiguous avowal,
The charmed, imagined others' withdrawal
Homeward, rarely glancing back . . .
Certain gestures, words, promises remain--
Perpetual mornings arise in refrain.
The lovely couple of the constant noon,
A rose castaway by the cellar window,
A space half-turned in the blackened earth,
Appear in rehearsal as he ascends
The porch overshadowed by the pencilled moon.
And in these leisures there is jury--
A sequence in thoughts or words that betray
The actions of children stepping in rhythm,
The autumn winds discoloring the grass,
Praying for dusk or a vague illustration.
The redundancy of laughter and tears,
Small hands of silence raised in a place
Upheld in the mind’s mute pantomime;
A theater of trees, spectacle of light,
Reverence in his eyes, riot in his sight.
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