XLVII

Don May 12th, 2009

XLVII Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            The passage of time never ceases to be a wonder and a mystery.  How, for example, do so many days manage to elapse between these blog entries?  As the years lengthen and the ones remaining shrink, one begins to notice about Spring not only the rebirth of nature but just as much the stage being set for another Fall.  I noticed this rather early, as you can see.  It is an inescapable part of the human condition.  It comes home especially strongly in the upper Midwest, where Spring is so late and so fleeting a phenomenon.

 IN ANTICIPATION OF AUTUMN(ON SEEING THE NEWBORN LEAVES)June, 1974 

Luxuriant, green-growth leaves that tower tall

Above our heads to form a mighty ceiling

Are surely destined down to die and fall,

 

The bare, left-lifeless, lifted limbs revealing

That bore them up until the fatal voice

Of Frost should come and whisper softly, sealing

 

Their fate.  They choose (and yet they have no choice)

To go a wandering, homeless vagabonds,

Seeking for a reason to rejoice

 

More than they had when, high, in soft green fronds,

The formed a restful, rustling canopy

To filter sunlight into summer ponds.

 

And I wonder why men (and I am one) must be

So like the leaves they see on every tree.

 

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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