November 19, 2023
by Linda Dove, Chris Edwards, Robin McNallie, and David Lane
Apple Communion Beryl’s apples fall for Kroger boxes to enclose and keep till Sunday service-goers take and eat as many as they will. Through blue September days they fall, through nights that darken, lengthen, end all summer. They fill one season, yes. But empty first another. Fall apples then, the windfall sign that times and marks a season’s end -- that speak their sermons not in stone, come down all flesh and skin and stem as if uncursed from ancient Eden. Take and eat. But first in every fallen thing, every gift time takes and gives, like these old emblems of a fallen world, see good. David Lane Autumn, Sky and Earth Above me this November day, I track A thin contrail, stretched across the sky. Like a clothesline it seems against the span of blue, The sight so warmly domestic that the ground I tread Becomes, itself, suddenly raw and derelict— Fallen leaves, some strewn and curled, like conch shells, Others plastered flat, as if tattooed Into the roadway under my feet, And scarecrow trees, a leaf or two still on them Like dangling gloves, beckoning the complaining Crows grokking somewhere by now Beyond the circle of workmen, who are Staring down a backhoe-dug trench, they are About to fill in with a load of gravel. The digger clown in Hamlet, if present now, Would no doubt in dark drollery have A punning word for that trench’s filler: ‘Grave-All.’ Robin McNallie Emily Dickinson was a private poet of the romantic era and not appreciated until her many-back-of-the-envelope poems were discovered and published after her death. Many of her poems were about the natural world she watched from her window and about life’s big transitions such as birth, loss, mortality and eternity. # XLV As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away.— Too imperceptible, at last, Too seem like perfidy. A quietness distilled As twilight long begun, Or Nature. spending with herself Sequestered afternoon. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone,— A courteous, yet harrowing grace, As guest who would be gone. And thus, without a wing, Or service of a keel, Our summer made her light escape Into the beautiful. Emily Dickinson. The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.[Read more…]