I've been reading Rilke at bedtime. Though this poem is at odds with the season outside, there are moments when I am too. And the days feel autumnal when I'm tired and look up from my desk too late to have seen the sunset. And there's something about age too I can't quite muster to tell you. So that I lose which season I'm in, which ones I'm between and I only know what doesn't change. This is Rilke, translated by Mary Kinzie, via.
Day in Autumn
After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.
As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.
Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.