Another winter coming and I’m talking to myself.
I’m setting up my wine and oil on the cellar shelf
In demijohns and jars as relics of my lucky stars.
It’s getting late. The more time flows the icier its scars.
I can’t tell if I pass through seasons or they pass through me.
I’m pulpy as the ripened fruit on my persimmon tree,
Whose leaves have fallen. In the distance, Mount Soratte’s cone
Is floating like an island where the tide of clouds has blown.
A raven grouches past defoliated pylon wire
Across the valley toward the setting sun’s sputtering fire,
Which the moon, a hooded vagabond, wields blood-red on a sickle:
A reaper not as grim as death, or fate, but just as fickle.
Fall Moon
Provide feedback on this article
The latest from america
“Deep cuts” to SNAP and Medicaid will “inflict real suffering on these families…. SNAP and Medicaid are not luxuries, they are lifelines for millions of children across our country.”
It was one of the first times Leo has spoken unscripted at length in public, responding to questions posed to him by the children.
The Vatican has named the judges that will preside over the trial of disgraced Father Marko Rupnik.
For so many of us, Roger Haight marked off a breathtakingly wide horizon in which we, agreeing with him or not, could fulfill our mission for God’s people.